George Orwell Reflections On Gandhi

George Orwell
Reflections on Gandhi
Saints should always be judged guilty until they are proved innocent, but the tests that have to be applied to them
are not, of course, the same in all cases. In Gandhi's case the questions on feels inclined to ask are: to what extent
was Gandhi moved by vanity — by the consciousness of himself as a humble, naked old man, sitting on a praying
mat and shaking empires by sheer spiritual power — and to what extent did he compromise his own principles by
entering politics, which of their nature are inseparable from coercion and fraud? To give a definite answer one
would have to study Gandhi's acts and writings in immense detail, for his whole life was a sort of pilgrimage in
which every act was significant. But this partial autobiography, which ends in the nineteen-twenties, is strong
evidence in his favor, all the more because it covers what he would have called the unregenerate part of his life and
reminds one that inside the saint, or near-saint, there was a very shrewd, able person who could, if he had chosen,
have been a brilliant success as a lawyer, an administrator or perhaps even a businessman.
At about the time when the autobiography first appeared I remember reading its opening chapters in the ill-printed
pages of some Indian newspaper. They made a good impression on me, which Gandhi himself at that time did not.
The things that one associated with him — home-spun cloth, “soul forces” and vegetarianism — were unappealing,
and his medievalist program was obviously not viable in a backward, starving, over-populated country. It was also
apparent that the British were making use of him, or thought they were making use of him. Strictly speaking, as a
Nationalist, he was an enemy, but since in every crisis he would exert himself to prevent violence — which, from
the British point of view, meant preventing any effective action whatever — he could be regarded as “our man”. In
private this was sometimes cynically admitted. The attitude of the Indian millionaires was similar. Gandhi called
upon them to repent, and naturally they preferred him to the Socialists and Communists who, given the chance,
would actually have taken their money away. How reliable such calculations are in the long run is doubtful; as
Gandhi himself says, “in the end deceivers deceive only themselves”; but at any rate the gentleness with which he
was nearly always handled was due partly to the feeling that he was useful. The British Conservatives only became
really angry with him when, as in 1942, he was in effect turning his non-violence against a different conqueror.
But I could see even then that the British officials who spoke of him with a mixture of amusement and disapproval
also genuinely liked and admired him, after a fashion. Nobody ever suggested that he was corrupt, or ambitious in
any vulgar way, or that anything he did was actuated by fear or malice. In judging a man like Gandhi one seems
instinctively to apply high standards, so that some of his virtues have passed almost unnoticed. For instance, it is
clear even from the autobiography that his natural physical courage was quite outstanding: the manner of his death
was a later illustration of this, for a public man who attached any value to his own skin would have been more
adequately guarded. Again, he seems to have been quite free from that maniacal suspiciousness which, as E. M.
Forster rightly says in A Passage to India, is the besetting Indian vice, as hypocrisy is the British vice. Although no
doubt he was shrewd enough in detecting dishonesty, he seems wherever possible to have believed that other people
were acting in good faith and had a better nature through which they could be approached. And though he came of a
poor middle-class family, started life rather unfavorably, and was probably of unimpressive physical appearance, he
was not afflicted by envy or by the feeling of inferiority. Color feeling when he first met it in its worst form in
South Africa, seems rather to have astonished him. Even when he was fighting what was in effect a color war, he
did not think of people in terms of race or status. The governor of a province, a cotton millionaire, a half-starved
Dravidian coolie, a British private soldier were all equally human beings, to be approached in much the same way.
It is noticeable that even in the worst possible circumstances, as in South Africa when he was making himself
unpopular as the champion of the Indian community, he did not lack European friends.
Written in short lengths for newspaper serialization, the autobiography is not a literary masterpiece, but it is the
more impressive because of the commonplaceness of much of its material. It is well to be reminded that Gandhi
started out with the normal ambitions of a young Indian student and only adopted his extremist opinions by degrees
and, in some cases, rather unwillingly. There was a time, it is interesting to learn, when he wore a top hat, took
dancing lessons, studied French and Latin, went up the Eiffel Tower and even tried to learn the violin — all this
was the idea of assimilating European civilization as throughly as possible. He was not one of those saints who are
marked out by their phenomenal piety from childhood onwards, nor one of the other kind who forsake the world
after sensational debaucheries. He makes full confession of the misdeeds of his youth, but in fact there is not much
to confess. As a frontispiece to the book there is a photograph of Gandhi's possessions at the time of his death. The
whole outfit could be purchased for about 5 pounds***, and Gandhi's sins, at least his fleshly sins, would make the
same sort of appearance if placed all in one heap. A few cigarettes, a few mouthfuls of meat, a few annas pilfered in
childhood from the maidservant, two visits to a brothel (on each occasion he got away without “doing anything”),
one narrowly escaped lapse with his landlady in Plymouth, one outburst of temper — that is about the whole
collection. Almost from childhood onwards he had a deep earnestness, an attitude ethical rather than religious, but,
until he was about thirty, no very definite sense of direction. His first entry into anything describable as public life
was made by way of vegetarianism. Underneath his less ordinary qualities one feels all the time the solid middle-
class businessmen who were his ancestors. One feels that even after he had abandoned personal ambition he must
have been a resourceful, energetic lawyer and a hard-headed political organizer, careful in keeping down expenses,
an adroit handler of committees and an indefatigable chaser of subscriptions. His character was an extraordinarily
mixed one, but there was almost nothing in it that you can put your finger on and call bad, and I believe that even
Gandhi's worst enemies would admit that he was an interesting and unusual man who enriched the world simply by
being alive . Whether he was also a lovable man, and whether his teachings can have much for those who do not
accept the religious beliefs on which they are founded, I have never felt fully certain.
Of late years it has been the fashion to talk about Gandhi as though he were not only sympathetic to the Western
Left-wing movement, but were integrally part of it. Anarchists and pacifists, in particular, have claimed him for
their own, noticing only that he was opposed to centralism and State violence and ignoring the other-worldly, anti-
humanist tendency of his doctrines. But one should, I think, realize that Gandhi's teachings cannot be squared with
the belief that Man is the measure of all things and that our job is to make life worth living on this earth, which is
the only earth we have. They make sense only on the assumption that God exists and that the world of solid objects
is an illusion to be escaped from. It is worth considering the disciplines which Gandhi imposed on himself and
which — though he might not insist on every one of his followers observing every detail — he considered
indispensable if one wanted to serve either God or humanity. First of all, no meat-eating, and if possible no animal
food in any form. (Gandhi himself, for the sake of his health, had to compromise on milk, but seems to have felt
this to be a backsliding.) No alcohol or tobacco, and no spices or condiments even of a vegetable kind, since food
should be taken not for its own sake but solely in order to preserve one's strength. Secondly, if possible, no sexual
intercourse. If sexual intercourse must happen, then it should be for the sole purpose of begetting children and
presumably at long intervals. Gandhi himself, in his middle thirties, took the vow of brahmacharya, which means
not only complete chastity but the elimination of sexual desire. This condition, it seems, is difficult to attain without
a special diet and frequent fasting. One of the dangers of milk-drinking is that it is apt to arouse sexual desire. And
finally — this is the cardinal point — for the seeker after goodness there must be no close friendships and no
exclusive loves whatever.
Close friendships, Gandhi says, are dangerous, because “friends react on one another” and through loyalty to a
friend one can be led into wrong-doing. This is unquestionably true. Moreover, if one is to love God, or to love
humanity as a whole, one cannot give one's preference to any individual person. This again is true, and it marks the
point at which the humanistic and the religious attitude cease to be reconcilable. To an ordinary human being, love
means nothing if it does not mean loving some people more than others. The autobiography leaves it uncertain
whether Gandhi behaved in an inconsiderate way to his wife and children, but at any rate it makes clear that on
three occasions he was willing to let his wife or a child die rather than administer the animal food prescribed by the
doctor. It is true that the threatened death never actually occurred, and also that Gandhi — with, one gathers, a good
deal of moral pressure in the opposite direction — always gave the patient the choice of staying alive at the price of
committing a sin: still, if the decision had been solely his own, he would have forbidden the animal food, whatever
the risks might be. There must, he says, be some limit to what we will do in order to remain alive, and the limit is
well on this side of chicken broth. This attitude is perhaps a noble one, but, in the sense which — I think — most
people would give to the word, it is inhuman. The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection, that
one is sometimes willing to commit sins for the sake of loyalty, that one does not push asceticism to the point where
it makes friendly intercourse impossible, and that one is prepared in the end to be defeated and broken up by life,
which is the inevitable price of fastening one's love upon other human individuals. No doubt alcohol, tobacco, and
so forth, are things that a saint must avoid, but sainthood is also a thing that human beings must avoid. There is an
obvious retort to this, but one should be wary about making it. In this yogi-ridden age, it is too readily assumed that
“non-attachment” is not only better than a full acceptance of earthly life, but that the ordinary man only rejects it
because it is too difficult: in other words, that the average human being is a failed saint. It is doubtful whether this is
true. Many people genuinely do not wish to be saints, and it is probable that some who achieve or aspire to
sainthood have never felt much temptation to be human beings. If one could follow it to its psychological roots, one
would, I believe, find that the main motive for “non-attachment” is a desire to escape from the pain of living, and
above all from love, which, sexual or non-sexual, is hard work. But it is not necessary here to argue whether the
other-worldly or the humanistic ideal is “higher”. The point is that they are incompatible. One must choose between
God and Man, and all “radicals” and “progressives”, from the mildest Liberal to the most extreme Anarchist, have
in effect chosen Man.
However, Gandhi's pacifism can be separated to some extent from his other teachings. Its motive was religious, but
he claimed also for it that it was a definitive technique, a method, capable of producing desired political results.
Gandhi's attitude was not that of most Western pacifists. Satyagraha, first evolved in South Africa, was a sort of
non-violent warfare, a way of defeating the enemy without hurting him and without feeling or arousing hatred. It
entailed such things as civil disobedience, strikes, lying down in front of railway trains, enduring police charges
without running away and without hitting back, and the like. Gandhi objected to “passive resistance” as a
translation of Satyagraha: in Gujarati, it seems, the word means “firmness in the truth”. In his early days Gandhi
served as a stretcher-bearer on the British side in the Boer War, and he was prepared to do the same again in the
war of 1914-18. Even after he had completely abjured violence he was honest enough to see that in war it is usually
necessary to take sides. He did not — indeed, since his whole political life centred round a struggle for national
independence, he could not — take the sterile and dishonest line of pretending that in every war both sides are
exactly the same and it makes no difference who wins. Nor did he, like most Western pacifists, specialize in
avoiding awkward questions. In relation to the late war, one question that every pacifist had a clear obligation to
answer was: “What about the Jews? Are you prepared to see them exterminated? If not, how do you propose to save
them without resorting to war?” I must say that I have never heard, from any Western pacifist, an honest answer to
this question, though I have heard plenty of evasions, usually of the “you're another” type. But it so happens that
Gandhi was asked a somewhat similar question in 1938 and that his answer is on record in Mr. Louis Fischer's
Gandhi and Stalin. According to Mr. Fischer, Gandhi's view was that the German Jews ought to commit collective
suicide, which “would have aroused the world and the people of Germany to Hitler's violence.” After the war he
justified himself: the Jews had been killed anyway, and might as well have died significantly. One has the
impression that this attitude staggered even so warm an admirer as Mr. Fischer, but Gandhi was merely being
honest. If you are not prepared to take life, you must often be prepared for lives to be lost in some other way. When,
in 1942, he urged non-violent resistance against a Japanese invasion, he was ready to admit that it might cost
several million deaths.
At the same time there is reason to think that Gandhi, who after all was born in 1869, did not understand the nature
of totalitarianism and saw everything in terms of his own struggle against the British government. The important
point here is not so much that the British treated him forbearingly as that he was always able to command publicity.
As can be seen from the phrase quoted above, he believed in “arousing the world”, which is only possible if the
world gets a chance to hear what you are doing. It is difficult to see how Gandhi's methods could be applied in a
country where opponents of the regime disappear in the middle of the night and are never heard of again. Without a
free press and the right of assembly, it is impossible not merely to appeal to outside opinion, but to bring a mass
movement into being, or even to make your intentions known to your adversary. Is there a Gandhi in Russia at this
moment? And if there is, what is he accomplishing? The Russian masses could only practise civil disobedience if
the same idea happened to occur to all of them simultaneously, and even then, to judge by the history of the
Ukraine famine, it would make no difference. But let it be granted that non-violent resistance can be effective
against one's own government, or against an occupying power: even so, how does one put it into practise
internationally? Gandhi's various conflicting statements on the late war seem to show that he felt the difficulty of
this. Applied to foreign politics, pacifism either stops being pacifist or becomes appeasement. Moreover the
assumption, which served Gandhi so well in dealing with individuals, that all human beings are more or less
approachable and will respond to a generous gesture, needs to be seriously questioned. It is not necessarily true, for
example, when you are dealing with lunatics. Then the question becomes: Who is sane? Was Hitler sane? And is it
not possible for one whole culture to be insane by the standards of another? And, so far as one can gauge the
feelings of whole nations, is there any apparent connection between a generous deed and a friendly response? Is
gratitude a factor in international politics?
These and kindred questions need discussion, and need it urgently, in the few years left to us before somebody
presses the button and the rockets begin to fly. It seems doubtful whether civilization can stand another major war,
and it is at least thinkable that the way out lies through non-violence. It is Gandhi's virtue that he would have been
ready to give honest consideration to the kind of question that I have raised above; and, indeed, he probably did
discuss most of these questions somewhere or other in his innumerable newspaper articles. One feels of him that
there was much he did not understand, but not that there was anything that he was frightened of saying or thinking.
I have never been able to feel much liking for Gandhi, but I do not feel sure that as a political thinker he was wrong
in the main, nor do I believe that his life was a failure. It is curious that when he was assassinated, many of his
warmest admirers exclaimed sorrowfully that he had lived just long enough to see his life work in ruins, because
India was engaged in a civil war which had always been foreseen as one of the byproducts of the transfer of power.
But it was not in trying to smooth down Hindu-Moslem rivalry that Gandhi had spent his life. His main political
objective, the peaceful ending of British rule, had after all been attained. As usual the relevant facts cut across one
another. On the other hand, the British did get out of India without fighting, and event which very few observers
indeed would have predicted until about a year before it happened. On the other hand, this was done by a Labour
government, and it is certain that a Conservative government, especially a government headed by Churchill, would
have acted differently. But if, by 1945, there had grown up in Britain a large body of opinion sympathetic to Indian
independence, how far was this due to Gandhi's personal influence? And if, as may happen, India and Britain
finally settle down into a decent and friendly relationship, will this be partly because Gandhi, by keeping up his
struggle obstinately and without hatred, disinfected the political air? That one even thinks of asking such questions
indicates his stature. One may feel, as I do, a sort of aesthetic distaste for Gandhi, one may reject the claims of
sainthood made on his behalf (he never made any such claim himself, by the way), one may also reject sainthood as
an ideal and therefore feel that Gandhi's basic aims were anti-human and reactionary: but regarded simply as a
politician, and compared with the other leading political figures of our time, how clean a smell he has managed to
leave behind!
1949
THE END
____BD____
George Orwell: ‘Reflections on Gandhi’
First published: Partisan Review. — GB, London. — January 1949.
Reprinted:
— ‘Shooting an Elephant and Other Essays’. — 1950.
— ‘The Orwell Reader, Fiction, Essays, and Reportage’ — 1956.
— ‘Collected Essays’. — 1961.
— ‘The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell’. — 1968.
____
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Last modified on: 2015-09-24
George Orwell
‘Shooting an Elephant and Other Essays’
© 1950 Secker and Warburg. London.
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(K.A. Sh R K Maharana)
Indira Gandhi was preparing for her upcoming election campaign when she received this note from Haksar five
days into the new year, on 5 January 1971:
P.M. may kindly see the report placed below prepared by the Research & Analysis Wing (R&AW). I have long
been feeling a sense of uneasiness about the intentions of Pakistan in future. The recent political developments in
Pakistan have added to my anxieties. With the overwhelming victory of East Pakistan wing [Sheikh Mujibur
Rahman], the solution of internal problems of Pakistan have become infinitely more difficult. Consequently, the
temptation to seek solution to these problems by external adventures has become very great. I think that the time
has come when our Armed Forces need to make a very realistic assessment both of Pakistan’s capability and our
response. I have a feeling that there are many weak spots in our defence capabilities. These need to be remedied
without loss of time. I know how busy P.M. is. And yet, I venture to suggest that P.M. should call in all the three
Chiefs of Staff , Defence Secretary and the Defence Minister and share with them her anxieties and ask them to
urgently prepare their own assessment and make recommendations of what the requirements of each of the Services
are so that we can feel a sense of security. I suggest that such a meeting should be held quietly and without any
publicity... [italics mine]
Just as Haksar was worrying about Pakistan based on his meetings with Kao, Ritwick Ghatak cropped up again.
The eccentric Bengali film-maker had made a film on Lenin but it had run into controversy. On 6 January 1971, a
day after sharing his worries about Pakistan with the prime minister, he told her:
In matters of this sort one is apt to be carried away by somewhat exaggerated notions that our society, such as it is,
would be seriously deflected from its course of evolution by a film on the life of Lenin as produced by Shri Ritwick
Ghatak. Generations of people all over the world have seen far more in inflammatory films by Eisenstein,
Pudovkin, Rossellini and others, These films, at any rate, were shown on a mass scale. And nothing very much
really happened. Even if the film is certified as it is, hardly any cinema would show it on a commercial basis. I
myself saw the film and I cannot say with any sense of realism that Ritwick Ghatak’s film on Lenin will bring the
revolution even fraction of a second earlier. However, I am rather more oppressed by the poverty of Shri Ghatak
who has staked up a little money with the help of some hapless financier and they are both desperately trying to sell
this film to the Soviet Union. It would be great fun exporting Indian Lenin to the Soviet Union! I hope the Soviet
society survives the depredations. It is really quite comic that so many hours of official time should have been
wasted in considering the solemn question whether the lm should or should not be released. I feel that we can well
afford to let the film go giving it a “A” certificate [Adults only]. [italics mine]
After dictating the note Haksar realized that he may have been carried away by his liberalism and suggested to the
prime minister that she may agree to having the film certified ‘for adults only’ subject to deletion ‘only of that
portion of the commentary on land grab sequence’. The prime minister agreed!
Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw is an authentic Indian hero and he did much to deserve that exalted status. He has
bequeathed to us the story that Indira Gandhi and her advisors were keen on an early military operation, and that he
put his foot down asking for more time. The documentary evidence does not lend any support to the claims made
by Manekshaw. At no time did Indira Gandhi or Haksar betray any impatience for war – not in their public
statements or actions and in Haksar’s case not in his internal notings either. And this even though many influential
Opposition leaders and public figures like Jayaprakash Narayan were clamouring for it – and so were some
strategic experts like K Subrahmanyam, who wrote a detailed paper making the case for an early intervention and
had it circulated at the top echelons of the government.
Manekshaw’s view, which has become the stuff of military legend, has been conclusively refuted, on the basis of
primary, archival material by Srinath Raghavan and by an eminent diplomat-scholar Chandrashekhar Dasgupta.
Raghavan writes:
... Contrary to the assertions of Manekshaw and his military colleagues, the prime minister did not contemplate
such an intervention in the early stages of the crisis.
Dasgupta is more cutting. He writes:

One of the most popular anecdotes of the 1971 war is Field Marshal Manekshaw’s tale of how he restrained an
impatient Indira Gandhi from ordering an unprepared Indian army to march into East Pakistan in April. The Field
Marshal’s prowess as a raconteur fully matched his military skills but exceeded his grasp of the political and
diplomatic dimensions of the grand strategy shaped by Indira Gandhi and her advisors. The prime minister had no
intention of going to war in April since India’s political aims could not have been achieved at that stage simply
through a successful military operation.
Dasgupta’s meticulous marshalling of archival evidence points unambiguously to just one conclusion: that, more
than anyone else, it was Haksar who masterminded what Dasgupta calls ‘the framework of a grand strategy
integrating the military, diplomatic and domestic actions required to speed up the liberation of Bangladesh’.
Haksar and Manekshaw enjoyed each other’s company. On 22 March 1971, Manekshaw sent a note to Haksar
marking it to him as PN Haksar, Esq ICS. Two days later drawing a circle around ICS, Haksar sent a ‘Strictly
Personal’ chit to the general:
Dear Sam:
Change and adaptation are Darwinian imperatives. And so Dinosaurs became Lizards and survived. Perhaps
Esquires could be Shris. Also I am not ICS, only poor IFS.
Please return this with your comments.
The next day, Manekshaw responded:
Dear Babbu:
Sorry to have branded you with the stigma of the ICS on the strength of which you may claim your pension in
sterling or at Rs 18 per pound sterling in Indian currency!!!
Shri PN Haksar sounds wonderful but “Shri” (which is Indian) doesn’t somehow go with “Secretary to Prime
Minister” (which is so English). Likewise “Jurnail Manekshaw – Senpatti” would cause few comments, but “Jurnail
Manekshaw-Chief of Army Staff” would sound odd. You agree? No –
That was the last bit of light-hearted banter between them for a long time for that very night the army crackdown in
Dacca and other places in East Pakistan began.
On 17 September 1997, Haksar wrote to Bakul Patel, the widow of his friend Rajni Patel, whom he had first met in
1937 in London. The letter seems to repudiate whatever Haksar had done for half a century:
I wouldn’t have inflicted this letter on you but for the way you have described me as Indira Gandhi’s ‘conscience
keeper’. If you would turn to Oxford Dictionary to find out the meaning of the word ‘conscience’, you will find the
following:
“the moral sense of right and wrong, especially as felt by a person and affecting his behaviour”.
I could not become a ‘keeper’ of something which did not exist. If I were to briefly describe my own career in
Foreign Service it could only be described as an errand boy during the Nehru years who graduated to become a
valet. And as the saying goes: “no man is hero to his valet”. A valet’s perception of his master is quite different
from those who come and visit the master and dine and wine with him. [italics mine]
A week later, after this uncharacteristic indictment of Indira Gandhi he would write to her biographer Katherine
Frank:
I wonder how far you have proceeded with the writing of your story. Knowing a little bit about your sense and
sensibility, I am sure that your book will be a fitting memorial to the life and work of Indira Gandhi.
On 2 April 1998, seven months before he passed away he again wrote to Frank:
I have read with admiration the way you are tracing the footsteps of Indira. Yes, I was in London from 1935 to
1942. Feroze was there too.
His very last letter to Frank was on 10 June 1998:
As I was contemplating my life and my time, as well your total involvement with Indira Gandhi’s life and work, it
occurred to me that you might consider meeting someone in the Rolls Royce factory where Sanjay spent a few
years as an Apprentice. You may find out from them what they thought of him when he was working there. After
all, the story of Indira Gandhi is not the story of a character in fiction. She was a daughter; she was a wife; she
was a mother; she was also the Prime Minister and possessed not only a body but also a soul. [italics mine]
The letter to Bakul Patel therefore cannot be seen in isolation. True, in itself it is a harsh judgment of Indira Gandhi
by Haksar. But his letters to Frank at about the same time are of a different nature and in Frank’s biography of
Indira Gandhi which came out in 2000, Haksar is on record both praising and criticizing the prime minister he
worked for. He was not niggardly in praise and was not unsparing in criticism of Indira Gandhi. I would put down
Haksar’s letter to Bakul Patel to one of those moments especially in old age when you begin to think that your life
has had no meaning. Stephen Greenblatt has pithily described this condition as ‘late-life melancholy’.
Excerpted with permission from Intertwined Lives: PN Haksar and Indira Gandhi, Jairam Ramesh, Simon &
Schuster India.
Ever since the advent of the Liberalisation-Privatisation-Globalisation era in India, in the early nineties, the clarion
call has been to privatise everything that belonged to the people and the governments elected by them. Ever since
the present government assumed office under the stewardship of Prime Minister Narendra Modi, this call has not
only become louder, it is also being put into practice.
In preparation for it, shortly after the Modi government came to power, the long-standing Planning Commission
was abruptly wound up and replaced by the National Institution for Transforming India or NITI Aayog. Here, the
word “transforming” clearly seems to mean privatisation. The NITI Aayog has virtually become a corporate
consultant urging the privatisation of all institutions, infrastructure and services. Now, attempts are being made to
privatise the Indian Administrative Services – a potent instrument of democratic governance – which has been
created under the Constitution.
Though the groundwork has been going on for quite some time, the actual privatisation of the Indian Administrative
Service has gathered steam in the last three years. The first change was the strange sight of IAS probationers
starting their training from the top, as assistant secretaries to the Government of India in Delhi, instead of at the
bottom, as assistant commissioners or Collectors in far-flung districts. This has given a clear signal that desk work
is more important than field exposure. This is significant because the unique selling point of IAS officers is the
valuable grassroots experience they gain right from their first posting in the block, tehsil and district, their wide
contacts with the public and political leadership, and their variegated exposure in different assignments. All this is a
boon for people-centered policymaking, conceiving and designing development-cum-welfare projects, and their
effective and expeditious implementation. Moves to privatise the IAS are seeking to neutralise exactly this.
Then came the steep reduction in the role of IAS officers at the decision-making level of joint secretaries in Central
government departments. They have been replaced with personnel from other services who have no grassroots
experience or exposure. For the first time, over 30% of the joint secretaries in the Central government are from
services outside the IAS. It is getting worse as seen in the appointments of joint secretaries last June. Out of 21
officers, only seven were from the IAS with the rest from the Central Services.
Another disturbing trend is that several IAS joint secretaries have sought and obtained premature repatriation to
their respective state cadres, and very few empaneled IAS officers are seeking deputation to the Centre.
Foot in the door: Lateral entry
The Union government now plans for lateral entry of people into the civil services. It recently invited applications
for appointments to 10 joint secretary-level posts from “outstanding individuals”, including from the private sector,
with expertise in the areas of revenue, financial services, economic affairs, agriculture, cooperation and farmers’
welfare, road transport and highways, shipping, environment, forests and climate change, new and renewable
energy, civil aviation, and commerce.
Though the number is small, this is a formal appointment to senior positions through a spoils system that intrudes
into the permanent civil service. Once started, it could spiral into a parallel private service within the government.
In politics and government, the spoils system, also called the patronage system, is an arrangement that employs and
promotes civil servants who are friends and supporters of the political party in power. The word “spoils” means
incidental, secondary, benefits. The spoils system developed into the firing of political enemies and the hiring of
political friends. This is anathema for a parliamentary democracy.
All these moves seem to be part of an orchestrated effort to ease-out the IAS from the Union government and bring
in “experts with domain knowledge”.
As justification, proponents of this move have quoted the observations of the Chairman of the Seventh Pay
Commission Justice AK Mathur and its Member Dr Rathin Roy, who said: “Senior management and administrative
positions in government have evolved considerably and are growing more technical, requiring specific domain
knowledge.”
But they need to answer one question: In the Indian context, what is the needed domain expertise for those who run
the government? Is it pandering to corporations and pushing predatory development models thrust by the rich? Or is
it basic governance delivered through effective and just governments that could uplift the miserable millions and
keep the country united? If the priority is the model thrust by the rich, the IAS is certainly dispensable.
Strong civil service needed
In the run up to the 2014 Lok Sabha election and after assuming office, Prime Minister Narendra Modi has been
repeatedly parroting the phrase “Minimum Government and Maximum Governance”. The governance agenda was
set out in the resolution establishing the NITI Aayog soon after he came to power. It ranges from fostering
cooperative federalism to developing mechanisms for preparing credible plans at the village level; ensuring that
national security concerns are taken on board in development policies; creating a knowledge, innovation and
entrepreneurial support system; coordinating inter-departmental issues and promoting research on good governance
and best practices in sustainable and equitable development.
If this agenda is to be implemented, India needs a strong civil service with grassroots experience and exposure to
the diverse aspects of governance. Professionals from the market without any knowledge of the nation and its
people, inducted through the spoils system, will only spoil the broth. They will be more loyal to their sponsors than
to the people they are meant to serve.
Insights IAS, a website devoted exclusively to the Union Public Service Commission and civil service matters has
this to say: “Large-scale lateral induction would, in fact, amount to a vote of no-confidence in the government
personnel management system, rather than in the highly dedicated, motivated and talented officers who have
chosen to join the civil services…Lateral entry cannot be a panacea for everything. It has been an exception in the
Indian civil service system and should continue to be so”.
Indeed, the Indian Administrative Service is a permanent civil service and must remain so. For this, the service
must go through fundamental and holistic reconfiguring to transform itself into a vibrant, transparent management
cadre so that the unimaginative, acquiescing and egocentric civil servant can become an imaginative, un-
acquiescing and result oriented manager. Instead of working towards this, the Prime Minister’s Office is doing the
reverse and is heading towards privatising the Government of India itself. This is unacceptable.
The writer is a former Army and IAS officer.

At the start of September 1997, when I arrived in the United States to begin what unexpectedly became a fifteen-
year spell of teaching and research at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Princess Diana had just died
in a car crash. Many were shocked and sad, and not only in Great Britain.
Trying to portray her legacy, television channels in the US showed shots of her sons, fifteen-year-old William and
thirteen-year-old Harry – dignified and photogenic, both of them. Looking at them, I thought of the lecture I was
expected to give on the legacy of Gandhi, who had died fifty-two years, or almost two generations, earlier.
Even if I possessed their photographs, which I did not, I knew I could not present his fifteen grandchildren, of
whom I was one, or the many more great-grandchildren, and say, “Look, here is Gandhi’s legacy.” That would not
have worked, even though, if you ask me, certainly the great-grandchildren, and their children, are quite dignified
and photogenic.
Descendants would not fit the bill in part because “family first” was not Gandhi’s motto. Cheated for long by big
men who nourished the ambitions of favourite offspring, the people of India honoured Gandhi because his family
did not come first with him. Steering Ship India across dangerous waters, Captain Gandhi did not save the best
lifeboats for his family.
Saying that in him “divine providence ha[d] given [India] a burning thunderbolt of shakti”, Gandhi’s great friend
and occasional critic, the poet Tagore, would add: Gandhi “stopped at the threshold of huts of thousands of the
dispossessed, like one of their own...spoke in their own language...and won the heart of India with his love.”
Raised in a privileged family in Rajkot in western India, Mohan had learnt as a boy to recite the family pedigree, of
which he was proud. When he was in his seventies, the hugs that Gandhi gave his grandchildren revealed his love
for them, the flesh of his flesh.
Yet many thought that the star of destiny that pulled Gandhi like a magnet and drove him to serve the Indian people
distanced Gandhi from his biological family while bonding him with countless Indians who seemed to need him
even more than his sons and grandchildren.
They thought that the relationship between Gandhi and his sons, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren was
detached, disengaged, perhaps even cold.
This was indicated to me, for example, by the legendary Aruna Asaf Ali, shortly before her death in 1996.
Aruna is a celebrated figure in India’s liberation story, a well- connected Bengali Brahmin whose brother had
married Tagore’s daughter Mira. Aruna herself had married a Muslim lawyer and independence activist from north
India, Asaf Ali. She went underground during Quit India, became a hero, and fought until the day she died for
equality and human rights.
Not long before her death, Aruna and others, including my brother Ramchandra, better known as Ramu Gandhi the
philosopher, all of them concerned about challenges to India’s pluralism, met at the Tees January Marg house in
New Delhi where Gandhi had been assassinated fifty years earlier. To those gathered, Ramu, now deceased, spoke
feelingly of our grandfather’s last days. Listening to him, Aruna turned to me and said:
“I had no idea Ramu felt so deeply about Bapu’s assassination.”
Well, he did, along with a great many others. Aruna was not alone in thinking that the relationship between Gandhi
and his children and grandchildren was exactly like his relationship with every Indian.
It was, and it was not. Blood brought something extra.
We deeply loved our grandfather, because of the kind of person he was, and because, despite the rarity and brevity
of our times with him, a rarity and brevity connected to his prison-going and his involvement with countless people,
he was an affectionate grandfather.
Since our father, Devadas, Gandhi’s youngest son, was based in Delhi, editing the largest newspaper there, my
siblings and I saw a good deal of our grandfather while he spent chunks of his final years in Delhi.
We bantered with him walking to and back from his 5 p.m. prayer meetings in the Dalit settlement where he often
stayed, or on the Birla House lawns on what is now Tees January Marg, and on rare occasions we had one-on-one
exchanges, as when he mocked a new pair of spectacles I was wearing while visiting him in the Balmiki Colony of
Dalits on Mandir Marg.
Aware of his love of thrift, I was hoping he would not notice the new object on my face, but the old man was sharp.
“You have something new on your nose,” he said. I was ready to fight back. “You know I have weak eyes,” I told
him, “I needed the new spectacles.” “And you also needed a new frame?” he asked.
One-on-one times were rare because in this final phase of his life, when freedom, partition, violence, and
migrations descended simultaneously on India, Gandhi’s hours and minutes were above all devoted to victims of
violence – Hindu, Sikh and Muslim victims – some of whom joined his multi-faith prayer meetings.
Being often present at these, I saw how my grandfather responded when, as happened on occasion, an angry
Hindu, or more than one, objected to the recitation of the Quran’s short opening chapter, Al- Fatiha.
Surprised at his patience with the protesters, I would also at times wonder whether one day they would physically
attack my grandfather, whose chest was barely protected with clothes, and who had no bodyguard.
Though telling myself that I should try to protect him, I was not present on the fateful day, 30 January 1948, when
he was killed.
Twelve-and-a-half at the time, I was taking part in a school athletics event.
Gandhi often appears in my dreams.There was a period about twenty years ago, that is, more than forty years after
he was gone, when in several consecutive dreams I searched in different parts of Delhi for him, until to my
unspeakable joy I found that he was alive, staying with one or two companions in a tiny but clean box-like shack on
Panchkuian Road in New Delhi, not far from Paharganj, the sort of shack that refugees from West Punjab had used
in 1947 and for some years thereafter.
The dream where I had found him appeared at least twice, felt utterly real, and was hard to shake off.
He loved his grandchildren and we loved him, but there was no question of his belonging only to us. The fact that
the people of India possessed him, owned him, was a given. It was accepted. It made no difference to our feeling
for him.
That fact greatly weakens any case for identifying Gandhi’s descendants as a major part of his legacy. For that we
must go elsewhere. Before leaving the descendants, however, let me say in all fairness that his four sons and four
daughters-in-law (there were no daughters, sadly), the fifteen grandchildren, of whom seven are still alive (four
females and three males), and more numerous great- grandchildren, have between them contributed well and
honourably to the intellectual, social and political life of India, and also of South Africa, Great Britain and the
United States.
Excerpted with permission from Why Gandhi Still Matters: An Appraisal of the Mahatma’s Legacy, Rajmohan
Gandhi, Aleph Book Company.
Learning is a skill – one you can greatly improve. And whether you’re a student,
hobbyist, employee or entrepreneur; whether you want to accelerate your learning and
unlock your potential or you just want to read more this year, the 70 books listed below
are an amazing place to start.
A quick note of thanks to Barb Oakley, Scott Young, Nasos Papadopoulos, Kalid

Azad and Erik Hamre (blog coming soon!) for their adds – they’re all inspiring writers
on “Learning How to Learn” and their blogs are well worth a visit! Thank you also to all
of you who wrote in with suggestions – if there’s anything you think I’ve missed and
deserves to be on the list, please do leave a comment.
In the coming years, I’ll be reading every book on this list, passing on the best ideas
in articlesand distilling the very best books into book crunches. If that sounds like
something you’d like to join us for (and you’re not already signed up), use the form
below to get free updates delivered right to your inbox!
But for now, without further ado – here’s the list!
THE TOP 10 MOST REVIEWED BOOKS

Got FOMO (fear of missing out)? Catch up with the crowd by starting with the 10 ‘most
reviewed’ books on the list:
1. Outliers, Gladwell
The Story of Success
Rated 4.1 over 394,300 reviews on Goodreads
2. The Power of Habit, Duhigg (read the crunch)

Why We Do What We Do in Life and Business
3. Moonwalking with Einstein, Foer

The Art and Science of Remembering Everything
4. Mindset, Dweck
The New Psychology of Success

5. Flow, Csikszentmihalyi
The Psychology of Optimal Experience
6. Grit, Duckworth
The Power of Passion and Perseverance
7. Deep Work, Newport (read the crunch)

Rules for Focused Success in a Distracted World
8. On Writing Well, Zinsser (read the crunch)

The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction
9. Mastery, Greene
10. How the Mind Works, Pinker

THE FULL “LEARNING HOW TO LEARN” BOOKLIST

Otherwise, here’s the full 70 book list on learning how to learn, organised by
Goodreads rating and number of reviews. Good luck and enjoy!
1. 10 Steps to Earning Awesome Grades, Frank (read the 3hr Note)

(While Studying Less)
2. Learning How to Learn, Shah (read the 3hr Note)

Psychology and Spirituality in the Sufi Way
Rated 4.4 over 200 reviews on Goodreads
3. The Neuroscience of Intelligence, Haier (read the 3hr Note)

Rated 4.4 over <100 reviews on Goodreads
4. On Writing Well, Zinsser (read the crunch)

The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction

5. Mastery, Greene
6. Peak, Ericsson, Pool

Secrets from the New Science of Expertise
7. Black Box Thinking, Syed

Why Some People Never Learn from Their Mistakes – But Some Do
8. High Performance Habits, Burchard

How Extraordinary People Become That Way
9. The Master and His Emissary, McGilchrist

The Divided Brain and the Making of the Western World
10. Neuroscience, Bear, Connors, Paradiso

Exploring the Brain
11. Deep Work, Newport (read the crunch)

Rules for Focused Success in a Distracted World
12. Tools of Titans, Ferriss

The Tactics, Routines, and Habits of Billionaires, Icons, and World-Class Performers
13. A Mind for Numbers, Oakley (read the crunch)

How to Excel at Math and Science (Even If You Flunked Algebra)
14. The Inner Game of Tennis, Gallwey

The Classic Guide to the Mental Side of Peak Performance

15. Make It Stick, Brown, Roediger, McDaniel
The Science of Successful Learning
16. Tribe of Mentors, Ferriss

Short Life Advice from the Best in the World
17. Mastery, Leonard

The Keys to Success and Long-Term Fulfillment
18. Fluent Forever, Wyner

How to Learn Any Language Fast and Never Forget It
19. Unlimited Memory, Horsley

How to Use Advanced Learning Strategies to Learn Faster, Remember More and be More Productive
20. Effortless Mastery, Werner

Liberating the Master Musician Within
21. Developing Talent in Young People, Bloom

22. Essentials of Human Memory, Baddeley

23. Outliers, Gladwell

The Story of Success
24. Mindset, Dweck

The New Psychology of Success
25. Flow, Csikszentmihalyi

The Psychology of Optimal Experience

26. Grit, Duckworth
The Power of Passion and Perseverance
27. So Good They Can’t Ignore You, Newport

Why Skills Trump Passion in the Quest for Work You Love
28. The Art of Learning, Waitzkin

An Inner Journey to Optimal Performance
29. Spark, Ratey

The Revolutionary New Science of Exercise and the Brain
30. On Intelligence, Hawkins, Blakeslee

How a New Understanding of the Brain Will Lead to the Creation of Truly Intelligent Machines
31. The Little Book of Talent, Coyle

52 Tips for Improving Your Skills
32. Pragmatic Thinking and Learning, Hunt

Refactor Your Wetware
33. How Learning Works, Ambrose et al

Seven Research-Based Principles for Smart Teaching
34. Design for How People Learn, Dirksen

35. Visual Intelligence, Herman

Sharpen Your Perception, Change Your Life
36. How the Brain Learns, Sousa

37. Learning How To Learn, Novak, Gowin
38. Transfer of Learning, Haskell

Cognition, Instruction, and Reasoning
39. The Power of Habit, Duhigg (read the crunch)

Why We Do What We Do in Life and Business
40. How the Mind Works, Pinker

41. Talent is Overrated, Colvin

What Really Separates World-Class Performers from Everybody Else
42. How to Read a Book, Adler, Van Doren

The Classic Guide to Intelligent Reading
43. The 4-Hour Chef, Ferriss

The Simple Path to Cooking Like a Pro, Learning Anything, and Living the Good Life
44. Bounce, Sted (read the crunch)

Mozart, Federer, Picasso, Beckham, and the Science of Success
45. The Practicing Mind, Sterner

Developing Focus and Discipline in Your Life — Master Any Skill or Challenge by Learning to Love the
Process
46. Why Don’t Students Like School?, Willingham

A Cognitive Scientist Answers Questions About How the Mind Works and What It Means for the
Classroom

47. A More Beautiful Question, Berger
The Power of Inquiry to Spark Breakthrough Ideas
48. The Memory Book, Lorayne, Lucas (read the crunch)

The Classic Guide to Improving Your Memory at Work, at School, and at Play
49. Attention and Effort, Kahneman

50. The Gold Mine Effect, Ankersen

Crack the Secrets of High Performance
51. Principles of Psychology, James

52. Remember, Remember, Cooke

Learn the Stuff You Thought You Never Could
53. The Road To Excellence, Ericsson

The Acquisition of Expert Performance in the Arts and Sciences, Sports, and Games
54. Moonwalking with Einstein, Foer

The Art and Science of Remembering Everything
55. How We Learn, Carey

The Surprising Truth About When, Where, and Why It Happens
56. The Rise of Superman, Kotler

Decoding the Science of Ultimate Human Performance
57. Mind Performance Hacks, Hale-Evans

Tips & Tools for Overclocking Your Brain

58. Learn Better, Boser
Mastering the Skills for Success in Life, Business, and School, or, How to Become an Expert in Just
About Anything
59. Train Your Brain For Success, Seip

Read Smarter, Remember More, and Break Your Own Records
60. Accelerated Learning for the 21st Century, Rose

The Six-Step Plan to Unlock Your Master-Mind
61. The Accelerated Learning Handbook, Meier

A Creative Guide to Designing and Delivering Faster, More Effective Training Programs
62. Use Your Perfect Memory, Buzan

Dramatic New Techniques for Improving Your Memory
63. Accelerated Learning Techniques for Students, Kahn

Learn More in Less Time
64. Self-University, Hayes

The Price of Tuition Is the Desire to Learn: Your Degree Is a Better Life
65. Practice Perfect, Lemov, Woolway

42 Rules for Getting Better at Getting Better
66. Hacking Your Education, Stephens

Ditch the Lectures, Save Tens of Thousands, and Learn More Than Your Peers Ever Will
67. Quantum Learning, Deporter

Unleashing the Genius in You

68. The Power of Mindful Learning, Langer
69. Expert In A Year, Priestley, Larcombe

The Ultimate Table Tennis Challenge
70. Micromastery, Ewiger

Learn Small, Learn Fast, and Find the Hidden Path to Happiness

Read body language, signs and gestures
It has happened to me sometimes to find more useful the ability to decode nonverbal communication while talking
with persons that where using another language.
I’m not trying to rebulid the nonverbal alphabet but to group nonverbal communication and highlight only those
gestures that are common. Those elements of communication that people use mostly and whose understanding is
essential.
If this is not the first article that you read about nonverbal communication you probably already know that : verbal
communication occupies about 7% of all information submitted. The rest are divided as follows: 38%
paraverbal communication (voice volume, inflection) and 55% nonverbal communication (body posture,
facial mimics, gestures, attitudes).
Also it is known that women have a greater ability to decode nonverbal messages than men, so this is an article
more for men.
Verbal communication is supported by the neocortex and nonverbal communication and paraverbal communication
is supported by the limbic brain.
Verbal communication is the one that can or can not lie while para-verbal and nonverbal communication don’t lie
because they know the truth and is expressed as if it’s the only possible option. Therefore I give you three situations
that you can follow and see if you are lied:
If the answer is yes but the person that is talking with you raise his shoulders it means that the answer is I DON’T
KNOW.
If the answer is yes but the head moves left and right means that the answer is NO.
“I’ll say this only once” – this statement announces a lie.
Para-verbal communication can be deciphered by paying more attention to the following voice features:
1. tone of voice, increasing tones express a dose of safety while decreasing inflections show insecurity.
2. pauses between words and phrases both transmit clues about the speaker’s intentions and attitudes.
3. speech speed may be slow (250 syllables / min), normal (300 syllables / min) or fast (500 syllables / min). A fast
paced speech show that the speaker is unsure and disorganized. He knows what he wants to say but he’s talking fast
because he wants to get rid of the words because he does not feel comfortable when speaking. While an average
pace expresses safety, the speaker knows that what has to say is just as important to everyone as it is for him.
Neither a slow pace is not desirable because it gives the impression of low intelligence.
4. voice volume show speakers authority, its power of persuasion and the ability to be listened to.
5. other sounds (onomatopoeia, moan, scream, grunt, sigh, laugh) are designed to complement the verbal message
where moods are too strong or words are lacking for the moment.
Paraverbal communication role is to reinforce, contradict, distort or replace the verbal message. Para-
communication hides the nature of the relationship between sender and receiver.
A subcomponent of verbal language is Metalanguagemeaning “words behind words”. This enables us to

manipulate without others to perceive while remaining well-mannered. The most common 10 metawords:
1. “On my honor, Honestly“ shows that the speaker will not be honest.
2. “Ok?“ and “Yes?” placed at the end of sentence forces the listener to agree with what was said.
3. “Only“ is used to minimize the significance of what is to be said.
4. “Just“ is used to alleviate the guilt of a person or to deflect culpability for certain undesirable consequences.
5. “I am trying” in free translation means they have doubts about their ability to do that something and it is used by
people that usually don’t get things done.
6. “Yes but“ tries to avoid intimidation by simulating an agreement.
7. “But” signals that the person was not honest up to that point and contradicts the words that precede it.
8. “Believe me” announces a lie that will be as bigger as convincing it sounds.
9. “Sure,” wants to let it know that everyone agrees with him.
10. “I wish I could hope for“ – is a wise way to provide no opinion.
To interpret gestures we must consider in which context we analyze the person. Gestures have different
meanings in different situations. If a person is scratching his eyelid it could mean that it’s hiding something, but
also it could mean that it can have an eye irritation. Also a number of different repeated gestures but with the
same definition, can be a clear message of nonverbal communication.
To be understandable and easy remember all the meanings I will group the gestures in 4 categories:
1. FACIAL EXPRESSIONS

2. HAND TO THE HEAD
3. HAND ON BODY
4. FOOT POSITION
Facial expressions are the most easier to read.

For two reasons:
1. it’s where you look when you talk to someone.

2. during a dialogue your hand should not touch your face. Any gesture with your hand touching your face signifies
something.
FACIAL EXPRESSIONS
If you look at the person talking will notice that when he starts talking he will begin communicating with facial
expressions and then the words will come reinforcing what we already knew.
There’s no need to explain you how a smile looks, a frown, contempt, anger, joy, you see them without paying too
much attention. I can give you instead a number of secrets about facial expressions:
1. fake smile creates wrinkles only at the corner of the mouth, a true smile creates wrinkles also at the corner of the
eye.
2. asymmetry in facial expression highlights that a lie has been told.
3. eyes, nose and throat are connected. When someone expresses an intense state eyes are wet, it gets a moisty nose
and swallow saliva. If one of the three elements is missing then the person simulates emotion.
4. enlarged pupils show strong emotion, interest, excitement, feeling good; not too dark if it’s true in which case the
pupils get larger to allow the eyes to see.
5. prolonged closure of the eyes in a discussion means that this person removes you from his visual memory.
6. arrhythmic winking hides a lie.
7. mouth slightly open (typically for women) show interest in the person she’s talking to.
8. renewing lipstick on lips (typically for women) – show interest.
9. interruption of visual contact only with eyes means concentration to remember, while total return of the head
means he’s hiding something.
10. watching over glasses does not mean espionage or a critical gesture, it’s a gesture of convenience.
The look is extremely important in a discussion, perhaps the most important, and some very experienced people can
read in the eyes of those they discuss to everything they don’t say. They don’t need to read the position of the
hands, body, paraverbal language etc..
Therefore I’m going to show you two tricks regarding the (eyes) look, to see what and how the other thinks
depending on eye position.
First. There are 4 types of looking at someone:
1. Official look = in the triangle between the eyes and forehead.

2. The entourage look = between the eyes and lips.
3. Intimate look = between the eyes and breasts to the thighs.
4. The assessment look ( to the side) = critical or of interest according to facial expression.
Second. You can see what the other person is doing depending on the position of eyes as follows:
1. Eyes are in the upper left = he remembers something visual (or at least he tries).
2. Eyes are median left = he remembers something heared.
3. Eyes are down to the left = deep inside of him there is a dialogue.
4. Eyes are in the upper right = visual he is imagining something.
5. Eyes are in the median right = he imagines hearing something.
6. Eyes are down to the right = he lives a range of emotions and feelings.
I have done a short list with reference to head position according to which you can read the general condition of the
other:
 head pushed in front = threat

 head bent back = submission
 head is high = courage
 head tilted right = goodwill
 head tilted to the left = skepticism
 head bent down = uncertainty
 head straight = neutral
HAND ON THE HEAD
The following interpretations are the most important and are essential to fully understand the message.
Next I will make a list of the most common hand to the head gestures and their significance:
1. covering your mouth while speaking shows that what has been said is a lie.
2. If you cover your mouth while someone talks it means that what you hear you think it’s a lie. The explanation is
identical.
3. eye massage with your middle finger means exactly what the hand gesture means (showing the middle finger) . This
gesture is made unconsciously to not offend the speaker.
4. hand to the forehead and head bowed in front signify shame, embarrassment, hiding from the world.
5. hand streatching the earlobe or finger shoved inside collar or neck hand massage shows uncertainty of what was
said, lying or hiding something from the discussion.
6. glasses or pen placed in mouth denote a state of uncertainty.
7. head held in the palm denote boredom.
8. fist to face shows appreciation for the listener.
9. chin rubbing or thumb under the cheek highlights that listener has contradictory opinions.
10. ear pushed forward means that the listener has something to say. He does not want to listen and want to start
talking.
HAND ON BODY
Hands can be in different positions but I’ll explain just the most important and commonly 10 positions:
1. hands folded shows negativity, skepticism, blocking the message he receives, the other person is perceived as a
stranger, defensive position (person defends his heart).
2. if you put your hands on your hip they widen body, you seem bigger, more threatening and convincing or
influential, if accompanied with a jacket throwed on your back looks like threat or attack position.
3. hands behind your back or in front, one holding the other by the forearm denote insecurity, mistrust, fear.
4. hands behind your back, one holding the other by the wrist usually comes with chin up and chest facing forward
symbolizing an authoritative person, courageous (your chest is out in front without a safeguard, you feel safe and
secure like a chief, dominant).
5. asymmetrical shaking hands show that the person is approachable, hands with slow movements show safety,
securance (those that have slower moves know that what they have to say is important that’s why they have no
rush, they have all the time in the world).
6. hand placed on the other person’s shoulder followed by the words “I understand” is how you manage to draw him
on your side.
7. steeple up hands shows dominance, leadership and steeple down allegiance, obedience (your fingers show where
you position yourself in the discussion).
8. thumb in your pocket or outside the pocket denote domination, safety, strength, sexual aggression (your genital
highlighted).
9. cleaning nonexistent lint from clothing shows disapproval and inability to come up with personal arguments.
10. playing with cylindrical objects such as cigarettes, a finger, a cocktail glass or any other signifies courtship (more
common in women)
FOOT POSITION
Feet position is as important as hands position , feet position can easily show if the speaker‘s words are true.
1. when you support your body on one foot, the other one is directed to the person you unconsciously considered the
most important at that time.
2. feet and hands crossed while sitting down means that the person in question is retreated from discussion, legs and
arms crossed while standing could mean that the subjects don’t know each other.
3. if you talk to a person but your legs are oriented in a different direction means that you want to end the discussion
and move in the direction shown by your feet.
4. when you get one leg over the other, it means that the person in the direction shown by the above knee is more
important / interesting for you.
5. for the third person to be fully accepted in a discussion the first two speaking (facing each other) will have to “
open” their legs so that the three of them will form a triangle between their legs. If there’s a group of 4 persons they
must form a square and so on.
Nonverbal communication is more extensive then what you have read in this article. I tried to help with the most
common gestures and their meanings.
We perceive messages divided as follows:
 87% visual
 9% hearing
 4% other senses
If 55% of the message sent between two people comes from nonverbal communication and 87% of the message
comes from the visual chanel imagine how much is lost if we use only hearing and voice communication.
Classic Chinese Face Reading originally derived from Daoist philosophy, and the oldest Chinese writing on this
topic is commonly credited to Mr. Guiguzi (Ghost Valley Scholar: 481-221 BC), whose work is still in print to this
very day.
Traditionally, Face Reading to Chinese was a lot more than merely another way of fortune telling. When Chinese
medicine is concerned, it is as relevant today as it was in ancient China, frequently used to help build patient’s
mental and physical profiles to aid diagnosis and treatment.
There are numerous ways to read a face in Chinese physiognomy: 3 Quarters, 8 Trigrams, 108 Spots, examining the
shapes, the colours, the wrinkles and the moles, just to name a few. A master of face reader usually employs the
combination of several techniques to gain multiple perspectives and perform cross-examination.
Following is a brief introduction to the 12 Houses method.
1, Fortune House (Fude Gong)
It gives an overview of your general fortune trend. An ideal Fortune House should be round, full and smooth with
no visible marks, lines or scars. Flaws in these areas reflect problems in your life, which can be in the form of bad
health, distressful relationships or money troubles.
2, Parents House (Fumu Gong)
It is associated with Heaven Luck, in this regard its state is quite a testimony to the situation that your parents were
in and your relationship with them.
A forehead that is wide, round and shinning speaks of a good family inheritance, a comfortable upbringing and
early achievement, while a small, bony or disfigured one illustrates an uneasy childhood.
3, Career House (Guanlu Gong)
Again, being broad, round and smooth is the basic criteria to identify a good Career House.
If on the top of that, you also have prominent cheekbones and protruding eyebrows, you shall have a great chance
to achieve a great success in your chosen field.
4, House of Travel (Qianyi Gong)
If it is in any way disfigured with scars or deep lines, you might be better off saying put. Furthermore, jobs or
businesses involving transportation, tourism or import/export are, understandably, not your best choice.
5, Life House (Ming Gong)
The key to your fortune is deposited here.
Naturally, being smooth and shinny is ideal, which suggests a trouble-free life journey. If it is receded, dimpled or
scared; or there are permanent horizontal lines between the brows; or eyebrows meet in the middle, you may face a
bumping road ahead.
6, House of Siblings (Xiongdi Gong)
It is represented by eyebrows and the areas directly above them, and it also oversees your relationship with your
friends and colleagues.
The state of your hair has a direct connection to the physical conditions of your parents at the time when you were
conceived, which means it has a lot to do with your genetic make-ups. Brows that are dark, thick, long, smooth,
orderly and located high above eyes indicate a healthy hormone level that gives rise to affection, calmness and
courage. If they look sparse, thin, pale, short, or chaotic, or too close to eyes, or marked with a scar, you could be
tormented by your own physical or emotional states.
7, Assets House (Tianzhai Gong)
Your eyes betray your intelligence and temperament, and the very quality of these dispositions plays important role
in your asset acquisition endeavour.
Good Asset Houses are constituted with eyes that are long with large pupils and clear whites, and up-eyelids that
are broad and full. Deep-set or dazed eyes disclose dumbness, while recessed or narrow eyelids exhibit impatience.
If the whites are coloured with red streaks, and worse, if the streaks pass through a pupil, you should brave yourself
for a severe storm when your financial aspect is concerned.
8, House of Marriage (Qiqie Gong)
Being full and smooth in appearance indicates a happy marriage. A receded House however rings alarm bell on
extra marital affairs. If the area bears visible spots, scars, black moles or messy lines, your marriage could be in
serious trouble due to some unscrupulous conduct.
9, House of Children (Ernu Gong)
This area is closely related to cerebellum and also governs your love and sex life, so again, being full and round is
better than being flat or receded. Dim moles or slant lines across the area are especially undesirable, suggesting
some problems regarding your own sex life or your children’s future development.
10, Health House (Jie Going)
If the House is broken or marked with horizontal lines, or if it is stained with spots, marks or discolouration, you
shall pay extra attention to your health, especially your digester system.
11, Wealth House (Caibo Gong)
A nose that has high and straight bridge, big and round tip, full and fleshy wings, and invisible nostrils, not only
indicates sound physical health, a positive mental attitude, also denotes success in career and abundance in wealth.
On the other hand, a nose that is low, or crooked, pointed, or narrow, bony, or with contoured bridge, upturned tip,
visible nostrils, reveal a problematic personality, a troublesome financial situation or a difficult career path. If blood
vassals are clearly visible, or a dim blue colour tones the surface, an illness or a money loss is on the way. When a
nose turns bloody red, which is dubbed Fire in Lounge in Chinese physiognomy, it should be viewed as a serious
warning sign – an impending disaster is near.
12, Popularity House (Nupu Going)
This House rules your relationship with your colleagues, subordinates or younger generations, and foretells your
situation in your old age.
When they are round and full, you can expect to enjoy your popularity among your followers. But if it sharps off, or
appears crooked or bony, you probably should forget your dream about being a politician. And what’s more, you’d
better prepare for self-support during old age.
Physiognomy and facial expression includes all the features of each particular human face.
Although the study of physiognomy is not part of a separate science of biology or psychology, people have been
and are preoccupied to distinguish and interpret people’s faces, facial expressions and micro expressions.
The best way to learn face reading is to first learn how to recognize the different facial features and then learn how
to relate them to their corresponding personality traits.
For the start I recommend you analyzing your personal traits such as:
– Your forehead type and size, occurring wrinkles and their alignment
– Eyebrows and eyes color, size, distance between them and shape
– Nose shape and length
– Mouth, lips and chin, shape and size
– Ears, hair and face shape
Surprisingly, many people may not know the answer to many of these questions, that’s why it’s very important to
learn how to recognize these facial features in order to master the science of face reading.People usually become
very enthusiastic about learning face reading and thus skip this step, however, it’s a strongly recommended step if
you want to become a good face reader.
Below I will share those distinct areas of physiognomy.
Facial shape
Round Face: They are known as water-shaped faced people. They have plump and fleshy face. They are known to
be sensitive and caring. They are thought to have strong sexual fantasies. If you are looking forward for a long-
term, stable relationship, these people will prove to be the right choice.
Oblong Face: The long, thin face is called the wood-shape face. These people may have a muscular or athletic
physique. They are thought to be practical, methodical and tend to be a tad more overworked. They are weighed
along with narcissism and may have problematic relationships.
Triangular Face: These face types are usually related to a thin body and intellectual persuasion. They are
considered to be creative and thought to have a fiery temperament according to the Chinese face readers.
Square: They are known as the metal shape face. These people are thought to have an intelligent, analytical and
decisive mind. The face shape is associated with an aggressive and dominating nature.
Rectangular Face: signals some variety: they tend to dominate but with less force, often they get their way in
politics, business, sports, being always balanced, sometimes ambitious, sometimes melancholic.
Oval: expresses a character somewhat balanced, sweet, charming even, in which case those individuals are often
best diplomats, but also able to duplicate, women are often best artists. Sometimes they can be dangerous, but
temperamentally are weak, often they are weaker in physical strength, sometimes underactive.
Hair
Blonde hair is showing physical weakness and indifference.They may seem impressionable and easy but in reality,
they have the strongest consciousness, a great memory, this hair color reflects youthfulness, obedience and naivete.
Black hair without curls shows a person that is melancholic and looks calm. She is pessimistic and transmits her
dark ideas all around. Curly hair shows joy and affection.
Brown hair looks susceptibility and a romantic character, love of travel and adventure, these people have a strong
character, and liberal ideas often they are indifferent.
Dark brown silky hair shows a preatty and attractive nature, with a power of seduction. These people are sensible,
love the company they are with, are proud and confident.
Brown hair, coarse, show an independent nature, not very sensitive, indifferent. They are responsible (good
financial handling), reliable and usually more harworking than others.
Dark red hair, they definitely look courageously and often dark red-haired people are quarrelsome, skeptical and
angry. They possess great physical energy and an almost brutal force.
Bright red hair looks intelligent, sensitive, lucid spirit. If the hair is silky, it shows a loving nature , lively and
passionate. If the skin is white it shows imagination, poetic character, romantic, art and music lover.
Pale red hair looks stylish but they have a lack of firmness.
Man with a hairy figure is sentimental, he has strength, energy, power and love sports and exercises outdoor. Man
with no hair is a cunning man, diplomat, clever, he has tact in business, intelligent, his spirit is dominating the field.
Ears
Small ears show honor, manners and affection. As earlobe is thicker, the force of lived feelings is increased. Ears
too small show shyness and reserve, and if the ears are long and narrow, these qualities increase. Medium ears show
energy and determination.
Big ears with thick earlobe show rudeness and materialism. Distanced ears are showing cruelty destruction desire.
Vertical ears show strength, courage, energy, power.
Normal ears are those that do not pass the height above or below the eyebrows and nose. Those whose ears get over
the eyebrows appear to have an angry character, vindictive and even have criminal tendencies.
Ears with detached earlobes from the head show generosity and free spirit. Contrarian to these qualities is shown
by earlobes closed to the head. A large distance between the eyes and ears show intellectual capacity and talent.
Forehead
A high brow reveal aptitude for study. These people are very diligent and trained. They reach success.
A low and wide forehead shows a intuitive nature, endowed with natural skill and imagination. These people have a
lot of spontaneity and often by their spirit will shine. They are more interested on impressions than the knowledge
gained through study.
A little wide and high forehead well shaped eyebrows is the most desirable. It denotes prospect of permanent
success.
A square forehead shows honesty, sincerity. Straight eyebrows increase these qualities. Loosing forehead shows
lack of intelligence.
Forehead with deep lines (wrinkles) it reveals those who indulge in contemplation and research. Head without lines
show cold, selfishness, lack of empathy and sarcasm. Vertical lines (wrinkles) between the eyes shows the power of
concentration.
Eyebrows
 Curved Eyebrows: Your mental focus is people-oriented. You connect & relate to the world best through your
understanding of people. Sometimes you can understand an idea or theory better if it is explained to you in terms of
a personal example or experience. It is best not to burden you with too much technical detail without showing you
the real-world application (usefulness).
 Straight Eyebrows: Your approach is direct and factual, and you want the technical details. You appreciate logic, and
you will need to be shown all the facts and available data before accepting something as true. You mentally evaluate
the hard facts without letting emotion effect your judgement.
 Angled Eyebrows: If is important for you to stay mentally in control of any situation in which you find yourself.
Gregarious and expansive, you may have good leadership qualities because few people will challenge your authority.
You like to be right and usually are, having conscientiously “done your homework.” You stay mentally focused.
POSITION:
 High Eyebrows: You are discerning, selective, and discriminating. You need time to observe and work out ideas
completely before acting. You protect yourself with a wait-and-see approach. You need time to put new information
for you to understand how you feel about the subject and how the parts relate to the whole. You store information
with an emotional tab; by recalling the feeling, you can often recall the event with surprising clarity. You detest
being put on the spot to make a snap assessment or to make a decision about something new before you have had
time to reflect on it and understand it.
 Low Eyebrows: You are expressive, quick to take action and you process information quickly. You want to get the
job done and do it now. You may have a tendency to interrupt others when they seem too slow to speak because
you can often anticipate what they are going to say before they have finished saying it. You are initially optimistic
but may become antagonistic if criticized. Your challenge is to develop more patience with others who don’t have
your gift of mental quickness.
SPECIFIC TYPES:
 Bushy: You are a mentally active person, full of thoughts and ideas. Bushy eyebrows can indicate a powerful
intellect. You are a non-stop thinker.
 Thin (like a pencil line): You are single-minded, focusing on one thing at a time. Your challenge is being overly
sensitive to how you imagine others see you. You probably think they are more critical than they really are. You
sometimes feel overly self-conscious.
 Winged (thick at beginning, becoming thinner at ends): You need to be on the planning committee! You love coming
up with big, new ideas. Your visionary approach allows you to create exciting new plans, but your challenge is with
follow-through. Delegate details to someone else to free yourself up to focus on your grand vision.
 Even (same thickness throughout length): Your thoughts flow smoothly, evenly and you easily grasp whole concepts.
Your challenge is developing a tolerance for other people’s difficulty with detail. By your mental standards, the rest
of the world may seem slow or even unable to fully comprehend ideas.
 Managerial (thin at beginning, thicker at outer edges): You may be slow to start something new, but once a task is
accepted, you have great follow-through. Mentally tidy, well-organized, and methodical, you do well in any roles
that requires attention to detail and completion. You dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s
 Continuous/Uni-brow: Your thoughts are continuous and restless. Your challenge is to learn to mentally rest and
relax. If you have a problem, you may have trouble sleeping because you can’t stop thinking. Meditation helps.
 Tangled hairs (eyebrow hairs tangle): Your wild eyebrows signal that you are an unconventional thinker whose
thoughts range over many areas, This gives you the ability to see all sides of an issue, and you may enjoy playing
devil’s advocate to discover hidden truths. Your unusual mind may also attract unwanted conflict. If you’re getting
more conflict than you want, try combing your eyebrows!
 Access hairs (hairs growing straight up at beginning): You have a strong connection between your inner feelings and
your logical thinking. You have an ability to be aware of potential problems immediately. Access hairs on the right
side indicate that you spot problems in business and the public area. On the left side, they indicate you anticipate
(expect/predict) potential problems in relationships.
 Scattered hairs (single hairs outside of eyebrows): Your focus is wide ranging. You have a curious mind and are
mentally drawn to many different topics. Each individual hair could almost be read as a separate mental interest.
Your challenge is remaining focused on a single topic.
 Chameleon (nearly invisible eyebrows): Your eyebrows do not give you away. Others may think you are just like
them, whether you are not. You can blend into almost any group and you may be a talented negotiator because you
can extract more information than you reveal.
SOURCE: “Amazing Face Reading” By Mac Fuller, J.D.
Eyes
Brown eyes – Brown eyes are all about the Earth qualities of a person, including energy, fertility, endurance,
creativity, lots of courage, and of course, grounding. And they are not much interested in material gains. They love
nature, are spiritual and are very strong and even thick headed at times, very independent.
Black eyes – Oh mystery, sex, witchcraft, secrets, darkness (vampires anyone?). If you’ve read any romances and
especially paranormal romances, you’ll notice that all the heroes (and romantic vampires) have black eyes. They are
all mysterious and all the attributes listed above can be easily given to each and one of them. They never tell much
about themselves and they also are known to have psychic powers.
Hazel eyes – They are again independent and courageous. They are extremely sensible and they are said to be
empaths.
Blue eyes – Blue speaks about clairvoyant abilities (didn’t we just say the black eyes are the psychic ones?), and
can see the future and the past like Nostradamus or Edgar Caycee. They are also very observant of their
surroundings. Blue speaks of the energy of the sky and water (BIG surprise there!)
Green eyes – Would you be surprised if I told you that green eyes are all about the nature, healthy living,
freshness? These people of all types are compassionate and they are spiritual in nature. They are our healers.
Gray eyes – These folks are also sensitive and have an inner strength that not many others possess. They have a
deep wisdom and can change their mood to suit the current occasion.
Eyes that change colors and shades, show imagination and levity in feelings, but honesty in business. Character of
these people is lively and courageous.
Large round eyes show those who are mainly interested in the opposite sex. They are intelligent, impulsive,
imaginative and affectionate. If it is a big space between the eyes, they are honest, innocent and simple. Closed eyes
shows the ability to focus, restlessness and a pleasure for changing things.
Small eyes are of observers, mischievous and cunning. These people seek to take advantage of the smallest thing.
Closed eyes reveals aptitude for foreign languages learning and a good memory, if the eyes are distanced they show
stupidity.
Eyelids covering eyes shows larger sensuality, increasing if that person has rough blacck hair.
Nose
A perfect nose is one whose length is equal to the width of the forehead, and at the end has a width equal to the
length of the eye.
Aquiline nose reveals a commanding power, determination and pride. If the nose is narrow it loses these qualities
and replace them with a tyrannical character.
Straight well-formed nose shows patience, kindness, balance, elegance and power to endure, fascination but also
cold and indifference, liberal ideas in relation to moral and social conventions.
Aquiline nose with the tip bent down, showing a melancholy nature, yet proud and bold. These people will never be
funny, but will have a regular sarcasm.
Straight nose with the tip bent down, shows a more melancholic nature, but less envious and more lenient than
those with curved nose.
Nose pointing up high and slightly curved in, show enthusiasm, skill. These people reach their goals through their
cheerful and stylish manner. You can not be mad on them for too long. They laugh in defense and they’ll
implement their plan despite any obstacles.
Snub nose show a tendency to dominance, lack of elegance and behaviour in life, but it can be accompanied by a
literary and poetic power.
A curved nose reveals sharpness and very little curiosity, quarrelsome. If the person has thin lips and mouth with
bent edges shows gossipy.
Cheeks
Meaty / fleshy – special sensitivity, suitable for artistic interes.

Weak and narrow – shows a guy who may have concerns or mystery that wishes to hide.
Too round and full – spiritual innocence, some softness, lack for action.
Sunken – irritable type, melancholic, most often sick.
Very smooth carefree because it has a lack of responsibility.
Slightly wavy – reveals the experienced man that doesn’t refuse any new experiences.
Furrow – inclination to rustic life, unpretentious, feels happy while working but he’s not making excess work.
Raised to eye – generous, kind-heart, compassionate, ready to share tears with anyone’s pain, easily impressionable.
Lips
Thick lips show available pleasures, if the lower lip is slightly thicker that person loves to be well received, loving
character but undecided. If it also has a split chin it reveals laziness and selfishness.
Pursed lips show courage and decisive character. Small lips reveals sometimes a cold and cruel nature.
Pale tight lips accompanied by a square jaw shows avarice, dirt, cruelty, brutality, selfishness, someone with whom
we can’t be proud than in business.
When upper lip covers part of the lower lip reveals good character, loving person, love for pleasure and
entertainment – if lips are thin, a little generosity and more selfishness.
Heart shaped lips shows independence and confidence, seductive and sensual, the need for love and kindness is
also important for these persons.
Lower lip pronounced outside reveals talent, satirical, cynicism and sarcasm.
Preferable are thick lips then thin lips. Mouth with corners pointing down shows deep thought and melancholy.
The Chin
Bony chin shows firmness, if squared points to a strength character and little anger.
Right chin reveals a cold and selfish person. When cheeks are protruding it shows avarice. Sharp chin shows
selfishness and when it’s sharp and small this individual has an interest in being praised.
Round and protruding chin shows strength, determination, wisdom, prudence and material instinct. These people
inspire confidence through their easy and nice attitude.
Round dimple chin shows taste for business along with caution and discretion. Long squared chin shows a lawman
or a good financial intermediary business. If this man has small and tight lips he shows no mercy, he is relentless.
Square chin with dimples shows firminess, stubborn and hot temper. The dimple always increases the ardor and
affection. Double chin and big cheeks reveals great joy, attraction for good food and sensual pleasures. These
qualities are more pronounced in those with large jaws.
Adapted from The Wisdom of Psychopaths, by Kevin Dutton, by arrangement with Scientific American/Farrar,
Straus and Giroux, LLC (US), Doubleday Canada (Canada), Heinemann (UK), Record (Brazil), DTV (Germany),
De Bezige Bij (Netherlands), NHK (Japan), Miraebook (Korea) and Lua de Papel (Portugal). Copyright © 2012
Kevin Dutton
Traits that are common among psychopathic serial killers—a grandiose sense of self-worth, persuasiveness,
superficial charm, ruthlessness, lack of remorse and the manipulation of others—are also shared by politicians and
world leaders. Individuals, in other words, running not from the police. But for office. Such a profile allows those
who present with these traits to do what they like when they like, completely unfazed by the social, moral or legal
consequences of their actions.
If you are born under the right star, for example, and have power over the human mind as the moon over the sea,
you might order the genocide of 100,000 Kurds and shuffle to the gallows with such arcane recalcitrance as to
elicit, from even your harshest detractors, perverse, unspoken deference.
“Do not be afraid, doctor,” said Saddam Hussein on the scaffold, moments before his execution. “This is for men.”
If you are violent and cunning, like the real-life “Hannibal Lecter” Robert Maudsley, you might take a fellow
inmate hostage, smash his skull in and sample his brains with a spoon as nonchalantly as if you were downing a
soft-boiled egg. (Maudsley, by the way, has been cooped up in solitary confinement for the past 30 years, in a
bulletproof cage in the basement of Wakefield Prison in England.)
Or if you are a brilliant neurosurgeon, ruthlessly cool and focused under pressure, you might, like the man I'll call
Dr. Geraghty, try your luck on a completely different playing field: at the remote outposts of 21st-century medicine,
where risk blows in on 100-mile-per-hour winds and the oxygen of deliberation is thin. “I have no compassion for
those whom I operate on,” he told me. “That is a luxury I simply cannot afford. In the theater I am reborn: as a cold,
heartless machine, totally at one with scalpel, drill and saw. When you're cutting loose and cheating death high
above the snowline of the brain, feelings aren't fit for purpose. Emotion is entropy—and seriously bad for business.
I've hunted it down to extinction over the years.”
Geraghty is one of the U.K.'s top neurosurgeons—and although, on one level, his words send a chill down the
spine, on another they make perfect sense. Deep in the ghettoes of some of the brain's most dangerous
neighborhoods, the psychopath is glimpsed as a lone and merciless predator, a solitary species of transient, deadly
allure. No sooner is the word out than images of serial killers, rapists and mad, reclusive bombers come stalking
down the sidewalks of our minds.
But what if I were to paint you a different picture? What if I were to tell you that the arsonist who burns your house
down might also, in a parallel universe, be the hero most likely to brave the flaming timbers of a crumbling, blazing
building to seek out, and drag out, your loved ones? Or that the kid with a knife in the shadows at the back of the
movie theater might well, in years to come, be wielding a rather different kind of knife at the back of a rather
different kind of theater?
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Claims like these are admittedly hard to believe. But they're true. Psychopaths are fearless, confident, charismatic,
ruthless and focused. Yet, contrary to popular belief, they are not necessarily violent. Far from its being an open-
and-shut case—you're either a psychopath or you're not—there are, instead, inner and outer zones of the disorder: a
bit like the fare zones on a subway map. There is a spectrum of psychopathy along which each of us has our place,
with only a small minority of A-listers resident in the “inner city.”
Think of psychopathic traits as the dials on a studio mixing deck. If you turn all of them to max, you'll have a
soundtrack that's no use to anyone. But if the soundtrack is graded, and some are up higher than others—such as
fearlessness, focus, lack of empathy and mental toughness, for example—you may well have a surgeon who's a cut
above the rest.
Of course, surgery is just one instance where psychopathic “talent” may prove advantageous. There are others. In
2009, for instance, I decided to perform my own research to determine whether, if psychopaths were really better at
decoding vulnerability (as had been found in some studies), there could be applications. There had to be ways in
which, rather than being a drain on society, this ability actually conferred some benefit. And there had to be ways to
study it.
Enlightenment dawned when I met a friend at the airport. We all get a bit paranoid going through customs, I mused.
Even when we're perfectly innocent. But imagine what it would feel like if we did have something to hide—and if
an airport security officer were particularly good at picking up on that feeling?
To find out, I decided to conduct an experiment. Thirty undergraduate students took part: half of them high on the
Self-Report Psychopathy Scale, and half of them low. There were also five “associates.” The students' job was easy.
They had to sit in a classroom and observe the associates' movements as they entered through one door and exited
through another, traversing, en route, a small, elevated stage. But there was a catch. They also had to note who was
“guilty”: Which one of the five was concealing a scarlet handkerchief?
To raise the stakes and give the observers something to “go on,” the associate with the handkerchief was handed
£100. If the jury decided that they were the guilty party—if, when the votes were counted, they came out on top—
then they had to hand it back. If, on the other hand, they got away with it, and the finger of suspicion fell heavier on
one of the others, they would, in contrast, stand to be rewarded. They would, instead, get to keep the £100.
Which of the students would make the better “customs officers”? Would the psychopaths' predatory instincts prove
reliable? Or would their nose for vulnerability let them down?
More than 70 percent of those who scored high on the Self-Report Psychopathy Scale correctly picked out the
handkerchief-smuggling associate, compared with just 30 percent of the low scorers. Zeroing in on weakness may
well be part of a serial killer's tool kit. But it may also come in handy at the airport.
Trolleyology
Joshua Greene, a psychologist at Harvard University, has observed how psychopaths unscramble moral dilemmas.
As I described in my 2011 book, Split-Second Persuasion, he has stumbled on something interesting. Far from
being uniform, empathy is schizophrenic. There are two distinct varieties: hot and cold.
Consider, for example, the following conundrum (Case 1), first proposed by the late philosopher Philippa Foot:
A railway trolley is hurtling down a track. In its path are five people who are trapped on the line and cannot escape.
Fortunately, you can flip a switch that will divert the trolley down a fork in the track away from the five people—
but at a price. There is another person trapped down that fork, and the trolley will kill him or her instead. Should
you hit the switch?
Most of us experience little difficulty when deciding what to do in this situation. Although the prospect of flipping
the switch isn't exactly a nice one, the utilitarian option—killing just the one person instead of five—represents the
“least worst choice.” Right?
Now consider the following variation (Case 2), proposed by philosopher Judith Jarvis Thomson:
As before, a railway trolley is speeding out of control down a track toward five people. But this time you are
standing behind a very large stranger on a footbridge above the tracks. The only way to save the five people is to
heave the stranger over. He will fall to a certain death. But his considerable girth will block the trolley, saving five
lives. Question: Should you push him?
Here you might say we're faced with a “real” dilemma. Although the score in lives is precisely the same as in the
first example (five to one), playing the game makes us a little more circumspect and jittery. But why?
Greene believes he has the answer. It has to do with different climatic regions in the brain.
Case 1, he proposes, is what we might call an impersonal moral dilemma and involves those areas of the brain, the
prefrontal cortex and posterior parietal cortex (in particular, the anterior paracingulate cortex, the temporal pole and
the superior temporal sulcus), principally implicated in our objective experience of cold empathy: in reasoning and
rational thought.
Case 2, on the other hand, is what we might call a personal moral dilemma. It hammers on the door of the brain's
emotion center, known as the amygdala—the circuit of hot empathy.
Just like most normal members of the population, psychopaths make pretty short work of the dilemma presented in
Case 1. Yet—and this is where the plot thickens—quite unlike normal people, they also make pretty short work of
Case 2. Psychopaths, without batting an eye, are perfectly happy to chuck the fat guy over the side.
To compound matters further, this difference in behavior is mirrored, rather distinctly, in the brain. The pattern of
neural activation in both psychopaths and normal people is well matched on the presentation of impersonal moral
dilemmas—but dramatically diverges when things get a bit more personal.
Imagine that I were to pop you into a functional MRI machine and then present you with the two dilemmas. What
would I observe as you went about negotiating their moral minefields? Just around the time that the nature of the
dilemma crossed the border from impersonal to personal, I would see your amygdala and related brain circuits—
your medial orbitofrontal cortex, for example—light up like a pinball machine. I would witness the moment, in
other words, that emotion puts its money in the slot.
But in a psychopath, I would see only darkness. The cavernous neural casino would be boarded up and derelict—
the crossing from impersonal to personal would pass without any incident.
The Psychopath Mix
The question of what it takes to succeed in a given profession, to deliver the goods and get the job done, is not all
that difficult when it comes down to it. Alongside the dedicated skill set necessary to perform one's specific duties
—in law, in business, in whatever field of endeavor you care to mention—exists a selection of traits that code for
high achievement.
In 2005 Belinda Board and Katarina Fritzon, then at the University of Surrey in England, conducted a survey to
find out precisely what it was that made business leaders tick. What, they wanted to know, were the key facets of
personality that separated those who turn left when boarding an airplane from those who turn right?
Board and Fritzon took three groups—business managers, psychiatric patients and hospitalized criminals (those
who were psychopathic and those suffering from other psychiatric illnesses)—and compared how they fared on a
psychological profiling test.
Their analysis revealed that a number of psychopathic attributes were actually more common in business leaders
than in so-called disturbed criminals—attributes such as superficial charm, egocentricity, persuasiveness, lack of
empathy, independence, and focus. The main difference between the groups was in the more “antisocial” aspects of
the syndrome: the criminals' lawbreaking, physical aggression and impulsivity dials (to return to our analogy of
earlier) were cranked up higher.
Other studies seem to confirm the “mixing deck” picture: that the border between functional and dysfunctional
psychopathy depends not on the presence of psychopathic attributes per se but rather on their levels and the way
they are combined. Mehmet Mahmut and his colleagues at Macquarie University in Sydney have recently shown
that patterns of brain dysfunction (specifically, patterns in orbitofrontal cortex functioning—the area of the brain
that regulates the input of the emotions in decision making) observed in both criminal and noncriminal
psychopaths, exhibit dimensional rather than discrete differences. This, Mahmut suggests, means that the two
groups should not be viewed as qualitatively distinct populations but rather as occupying different positions on the
same continuum.
In a similar (if less high-tech) vein, I asked a class of first-year undergraduates to imagine they were managers in a
job placement company. “Ruthless, fearless, charming, amoral and focused,” I told them. “Suppose you had a client
with that kind of profile. To which line of work do you think they might be suited?”
Their answers couldn't have been more insightful. CEO, spy, surgeon, politician, the military … they all popped up
in the mix. Amongst serial killer, assassin and bank robber.
“Intellectual ability on its own is just an elegant way of finishing second,” one successful CEO told me.
“Remember, they don't call it a greasy pole for nothing. The road to the top is hard. But it's easier to climb if you
lever yourself up on others. Easier still if they think something's in it for them.”
Jon Moulton, one of London's most successful venture capitalists, agrees. In a recent interview with the Financial
Times, he lists determination, curiosity and insensitivity as his three most valuable character traits.
No prizes for guessing the first two. But insensitivity? The great thing about insensitivity, Moulton explains, is that
“it lets you sleep when others can't.”
This article was originally published with the title "The Wisdom of Psychopaths"
In the wake of terrorist attacks last week on the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo and a Paris supermarket,
the world has struggled to understand the combination of religion, European culture and influence from terrorist
organizations that drove the gunmen. Scott Atran, an anthropologist at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor
and the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique in Paris, studies such questions by interviewing would-be and
convicted terrorists about their extreme commitment to their organizations and ideals. Atran recently returned from
Paris, where he talked with members of the shooters’ communities. He spoke with Nature about what he
discovered.
What sociological and cultural factors are behind the Paris attacks?
Unlike the United States, where immigrants achieve average socioeconomic status and education within a
generation, in Europe even after three generations, depending on the country, they’re 5–19 times more likely to be
poor or less educated. France has about 7.5% Muslims and [they make] up to 60–75% of the prison population. It’s
a very similar situation to black youth in the United States.
The difference is here’s an ideology that appeals to them, it’s something that’s very attractive to more people than
you might think. In France, a poll by [ICM Research] showed that 27% of young French people, not just Muslims,
between 18 and 24 had a favourable attitude toward the Islamic State. The jihad is the only systemic cultural
ideology that’s effective, that’s growing, that’s attractive, that's glorious — that basically says to these young
people, “Look, you're on the outs, nobody cares about you, but look what we can do. We can change the world.”
And of course they are. These three lowlifes, they managed to capture the entire world’s attention for the better part
of a week. They mobilized all of French society. That’s a pretty good cost–benefit for the bad guys.
So is this a ready-made population for groups such as the Islamic State and Al Qaeda to
recruit from?
It’s not about recruitment, it’s about self-seekers. The Islamic State and Al Qaeda don’t directly order commando
operations. Basically they say, “Hey guys, here are ideas, do it yourself. Here’s the way to make a pressure cooker
bomb; here are likely targets that will terrorize people; here are things we hate. Go out and do it.”
Do the terrorists you study seem to have fit this pattern?
I talked to people in the neighbourhood where the [9/11 pilots] came from, their families. They didn’t know what
the hell they were doing. They were guys who worked at a technical university, they sort of hooked up, went to
mosque together, got an apartment together, wanted to do something together. They dragged in mattresses, they
watched videos. Neighbours told us the place stank because they never went out of the apartment.
None of this was carefully planned. But the [attacks] we remember, the ones that work, they pick carefully planned
targets. The attacks on the [World Trade Center] and Pentagon, these shook America to the core. In Madrid, [when
a set of train bombings in 2004 killed 191 people] they changed the government. But they're petty criminals with a
little bit of training.
Related stories
 Terrorist 'pre-crime' detector field tested in United States
 Airport security: Intent to deceive?
 Is terrorism the next format for war?
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It’s the organized anarchy of it that does more to terrorize than actually carefully planned commando operations. Of
course, a lot more of these guys are now heroes. They're going to be models for other guys.
Can anything be done to predict extremist attacks?
I think people want to be able to predict, to have surety. [But] it wouldn’t help if you knew about every single
[foiled] plot in terms of being able to predict it. The fact is that anybody at any time anywhere can start to make
their own network with their friends. It’s like when you boil water, when the cones rise up, you don’t know which
will boil first and pop. Complexity theory is not good for modelling these things. You’ll never be able to predict
with certainty.
It depends on the poll, but 7–14% of Muslims worldwide supported the Al Qaeda strike against the United States. If
something like that support the Islamic State, that’s a lot of people, [over 100] million. But who is actually willing
to fight and die? There is a problem of specificity. Even if people buy into the ideology, buy into the values, it’s far
from a sufficient condition.
The best predictors turn out to be things like who your friends are and whether you belong to some action group. In
the case of the Kouachi brothers [who committed the Charlie Hebdo attack], we had the greatest bonding
experience and that is prison. But it could be soccer, it could be whitewater rafting.
If you want to find out who's going to fight and die, if you want to break up a particular terrorist cell, find out what
they’re eating and how they dress. Plots never occur in mosques: you have to be quiet in a mosque. They occur in
fast food places, soccer fields, picnics and barbeques.
Why aren’t more people doing anthropological fieldwork, such as interviewing jihadis and
their families?
The problem is you can't have large samples. The insights you get can't come from surveys. They have to come
from in-depth field interviews and very tightly controlled experiments.
If you really want to do a scientific study with jihadis — I do it — you have to convince them to put down their
guns, not talk to one another, and answer your questions. Some people, if you ask them if they would give up their
belief in God if offered a certain amount of money, they will shoot you. So you can't ask that question.
It’s not just because it’s dangerous. It’s because human subjects reviews at universities and especially the [US]
defence department won't let this work be done. It’s not because it puts the researcher in danger, but because human
subjects [research ethics] criteria have been set up to defend middle class university students. What are you going
do with these kind of protocols when you talk to jihadis? Get them to sign it saying, “I appreciate that the Defense
Department has funded this work,” and by the way if you have any complaints, call the human subjects secretary?
This sounds ridiculous and nothing gets done, literally.
Have you run into such difficulties with your fieldwork?
As an example, I got permission, before the [three] Bali bombers [who carried out a set of simultaneous attacks in
2002] were executed, to interview them. They were going to be shot because they blew up 200 people. I couldn’t
get human subjects approval because “you have to bring a lawyer, and besides we won't allow anyone to interview
prisoners.” I said why? “You can never be sure you're not violating their right to speech.”
Then you have crazy things [required by US funding bodies] like host country authorization. Suppose you want to
do work in Israel and Palestine. So you go to the Israelis, say, “We want to do studies, just like we do in American
universities,” and say, “We need host country authorization from some government.” They say, “Are you crazy?”
And in many countries that are in chaos, who’s going to give you permission?
Can You Solve These Mensa Puzzles?

Narrating from her deathbed, Mathilda, a young woman barely in her twenties, writes her story as a way of explaining her
actions to her friend, Woodville. Her narration follows her lonely upbringing and climaxes at a point when her unnamed
father confesses his incestuous love for her. This is then followed by his suicide by drowning and her ultimate death; her
relationship with the gifted young poet, Woodville, fails to reverse Matilda's emotional withdrawal or prevent her lonely
death.
The novella begins with readers becoming aware that this story is being narrated in the first person, by Mathilda,
and that this narration is meant for a specific audience in answer to a question asked prior to the novella's
beginning: "You have often asked me the cause of my solitary life; my tears; and above all of my impenetrable and
unkind silence."[5] Readers quickly learn that Mathilda is on her deathbed and this is the only reason she is exposing
what seems to be a dark secret.
Mathilda's narrative first explores the relationship between her mother and father, and how they knew each other
growing up. Mathilda's mother, Diana, and her father were childhood friends; Mathilda's father found solace in
Diana after the death of his own mother and the two married not long after. Mathilda, as narrator, notes that Diana
changed Mathilda's father making him more tender and less fickle. However, Mathilda was born a little more than a
year after their marriage and Diana died a few days after her birth, causing her father to sink into a deep depression.
His sister, Mathilda's aunt, came to England to stay with them and help care for Mathilda, but Mathilda's father,
unable to even look at his daughter, left about a month after his wife's death and Mathilda was raised by her aunt.
Mathilda tells Woodville that her upbringing, while cold on the part of her aunt, was never neglectful; she learned
to occupy her time with books and jaunts around her aunt's estate in Loch Lomond, Scotland. On Mathilda's
sixteenth birthday her aunt received a letter from Mathilda's father expressing his desire to see his daughter.
Mathilda describes their first three months in each other's company as being blissful, but this ended first when
Mathilda's aunt dies and then, after the two return to London, upon Mathilda's father's expression of his love for
her.
Leading up to the moment of revelation, Mathilda was courted by suitors which, she noticed, drew dark moods
from her father. This darkness ensued causing Mathilda to plot a way of bringing back the father she once knew.
She asked him to accompany her on a walk through the woods that surrounded them and, on this walk, she
expressed her concerns and her wishes to restore their relationship. Her father accused her of being "presumptuous
and very rash."[6] However, this did not stop her and he eventually confessed his incestuous desire regarding her.
Mathilda's father fainted and she retreated back to their home. Her father left her a note the next morning explaining
that he would leave her and she understood that his actual intent was to commit suicide. Mathilda followed him, but
was too late to stop him from drowning himself.
For some time after his death, Mathilda returned to society as she became sick in her attempts to stop her father.
She realized, though, that she could not remain in this society and she faked her own death to ensure that no one
would come looking for her. Mathilda re-established her self in a solitary house in the heath. She has a maid who
came to care for the house every few days, but other than that she had no human interaction until Woodville also
established residence in the heath about two years after she chose to reside there.
Woodville was mourning the loss of his betrothed, Elinor, and a poet. He and Mathilda struck a friendship;
Woodville often asked Mathilda why she never smiled but she would not go into much detail regarding this. One
day, Mathilda suggested to Woodville that they end their mutual sorrows together and commit suicide. Woodville
talked Mathilda out of this decision, but soon after had to leave the heath to care for his ailing mother. Mathilda
contemplates her future after his departure, and while walking through the heath, gets lost and ends up sleeping
outside for a night. It rains while she sleeps outside and, after she makes her way back to her home, she becomes
extremely sick.
It is in this state that Mathilda decides to write out her story to Woodville as a way of explaining to him her darker
countenance so that he has an explanation even though she recognizes that she does not have much longer to live.
Books for study 1. Corey, G. (2009). Theory and Practice of Counseling and Psychotherapy (8th ed.). CA: Thomson Brooks.
2. Seligman, L. & Reichenberg, L. W. (2010). Theories of counseling and psychotherapy systems, strategies, and skills (3rd
ed.). Pearson education.
3. Flanagan, J.S. & Flanagan, R.S. (2004). Counseling and Psychotherapy theories in context and practice: Skills Strategies and
Techniques. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, Inc
4. Wolberg, L. R. (2005). The Technique of Psychotherapy Part I and II. NJ: Jason Aronson Inc.
Snyder, C. R.; & Lopez, S. J. (2002). Handbook of Positive Psychology. New York: Oxford University Press.
Snyder, C. R.; Lopez, S. J.; & Pedrotti, J. T. (2011). Positive Psychology: The Scientific and Practical Explorations of Human
Strengths. New Delhi: Sage South Asia Edition.
References
Seligman, M. E. P (1991). Learned Optimism. NY: Knopf.
Seligman, M.E.P. & Csikszentmihalyi, (2000). Positive Psychology: An Introduction. American Psychologist. 55 (1), 5‐14.
Carr, A. (2004). Positive Psychology a science of happiness and human strengths. NY: BR Publishers
Peterson C. (2006). A Primer in Positive Psychology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lopez, S. J. (Ed) (2013).
The Encyclopedia of Positive Psychology. UK: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Seligman, M. E. P.; Steen, T. A.; Park, N.; &
Peterson, C. (2005). Positive Psychology Progress: Empirical Validation of Interventions. American Psychologist, 60 (5), 410-
421.
REFERENCES 1. Adams HE & Sutker PB (1984) Comprehensive Handbook of Psychopathology. Plenum Press New York.
2. Tonge BJ, Burrows GD & Werry J.S. (Ed) (1990) Handbook of Studies on Child Psychiatry elsevier science, New York.
3. Gelder M. Mayou R & Cowen P (2001) : Shorter Oxford Textbook of Psychiatry 4th Edition. Oxford University Press,
Oxford.
4. Abraham S.Blunberg (1976) - Current Perspectives on Criminal Behaviour. The Drryden press.
5. Shanmugam T.E. (1981) Abnormal Psychology, Tata Mc Graw Hill, New Delhi.
6. Hilgard, Atkinson and Atkinson (I1975) Introduction to Psychology, Oxford IBH, New Delhi. 21
7. Clivet Hollin (1989) Psychology and Crime-An Introduction to Criminological psychology, Routledge London, New York.
8. Wicks, R.T. (1969) Correctional psychology Mac Millan New York
REFERENCES
1. Nelson R. & Jones (1995). Theory and Practice of Counselling. London : Holt & Rinehart Winston Ltd.
2. Coreeg G. (1991) Theory and Practice of Counselling and psychotherapy 4th Ed. California : Brooks Cole Publishing Co.
3. Swaminathan VD & Kaliappan KV (1997) Psychology for effective living - Behaviour Modification, Counselling, Guidance
and Yoga. Chennai : The Madras Psychology Society.
4. Patterson L.E. & Welfel EF (2000) The counselling process 5th Ed. California : Wadsworth.
5. Gudykunst, W.B., Ting-Toomey, S., Sudweeks, S., & Stewart, L.P. (1995). Building bridges : Interpersonal skills for a
changing world. Houghton Mifflin Co.
REFERENCES
1. Nelson R. & Jones (1995). Theory and Practice of Counselling. London : Holt & Rinehart Winston Ltd.
2. Coreeg G. (1991) Theory and Practice of Counselling and psychotherapy 4th Ed. California : Brooks Cole Publishing Co.
3. Swaminathan VD & Kaliappan KV (1997) Psychology for effective living - Behaviour Modification, Counselling, Guidance
and Yoga. Chennai : The Madras Psychology Society.
4. Patterson L.E. & Welfel EF (2000) The counselling process 5th Ed. California : Wadsworth.
5. Gudykunst, W.B., Ting-Toomey, S., Sudweeks, S., & Stewart, L.P. (1995). Building bridges : Interpersonal skills for a
changing world. Houghton Mifflin Co.
6. Hargie O., Saunders, C., & Dickson, D. (1994). Social skills in interpersonal communication,. (Publisher)
Recommended Reading:
Baddeley, A. (1997). Human Memory: Theory & Practice. Psychology Press.
Eysenck, M. & Keane, M. (2010). Cognitive Psychology: A Student’s Handbook. Psychology Press.
Hodges, J. (2007). Cognitive Assessment for Clinicians. Oxford University Press.
Simons, J. S. & Spiers, H. (2003). Prefrontal and medial temporal lobe interactions in long-term memory. Nature Reviews
Neuroscience, 4, 637-648.
Ward, J. (2010). The Student’s Guide to Cognitive Neuroscience. Psychology Press
Recommended Reading:
Baron, J. (2007). Thinking and deciding (4th ed.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Hardman, D. (2009). Judgment and decision making: Psychological perspectives. Chichester, UK: Wiley (BPS Textbooks).
Hastie, R., & Dawes, R.M. (2010). Rational choice in an uncertain world: The psychology of judgment and decision making
(2nd ed.). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.
Kahneman, D. (2011). Thinking, fast and slow. London: Allen Lane.
Newell, B.R., Lagnado, D.A., & Shanks, D.R. (2015). Straight choices: The psychology of decision making (2nd ed.). Hove:
Psychology Press
6. Hargie O., Saunders, C., & Dickson, D. (1994). Social skills in interpersonal communication,. (Publisher)
critical thinking:
An overview of books found in this topic:
 Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman

 The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark by Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan
 Thinking Critically by John Chaffee
 Leading from the Emerging Future: From Ego-System to Eco-System Economies by Otto Scharmer and Katrin Kaufer
 Critical Thinking: Learn the Tools the Best Thinkers Use, Concise Edition by Richard Paul and Linda Elder
 How to Read a Book: The Classic Guide to Intelligent Reading by Mortimer J. Adler and Charles Van Doren
 Asking the Right Questions: A Guide to Critical Thinking by M. Neil Browne and Stuart M. Keeley
 The 5 Elements of Effective Thinking by Edward B Burger and Michael Starbird
 It's Not Luck by Eliyahu M. Goldratt
 The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable by Nassim Nicholas Taleb
 The Art of Reasoning: An Introduction to Logic and Critical Thinking by David Kelley
Being aware of cognitive biases/heuristics and developing healthy skepticism are important components of a critical
thinker's intellectual toolkit
Here are three books I highly recommend if you want to develop your critical thinking skills.
1. Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman
2. The Demon-Haunted World by Carl Sagan, Ann Druyan
3. I have read a few chapters of this book and found it useful too Thinking Critically by John Chaffee
However, if you don’t want your head to hurt while reading Immanuel Kant’s Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals, an
introductory college textbook should do just fine. Critical Thinking by Brooke Noel Moore and Richard Parker provides a solid
introduction to the basics of what you are looking for.
Learning critical thinking is an exercise. I would suggest you start reading those very lengthy articles on WSJ, FT,
The Atlantic… and overall comment or opinion pieces. Essays are great too. Why? Because you will train your
brain slowly with small dosages to start thinking critically. This is a habit you must build block by block.
Another thing is, I would not suggest reading Thinking Fast and Slow. Very few people have managed to even
finish the book. In my opinion that’s why we only hear about system 1 and 2, which are basically the first 3
chapters or so?
I guess that the message Im trying to convey is that if you wish to improve your critical thinking books are a tool,
but so is every other piece of information. Pick books that have subjects that interest you and form a judgement.
While you read anything question the author. Try to challenge what is being said and cross check with other
knowledge you have acquired before. Look for evidence, pro or con.
However there is a really good book on the subject that you might enjoy, ‘A field guide to lies’ by Daniel Levitin.
The best book i have found for this is Asking the Right Questions: A Guide to Critical Thinking by M Neil Browne.
Another great book, though I've only read it once, is The 5 Elements of Effective Thinking by Edward B. Burger.
Not too long ago, I have had posted two lists of wonderful books as follows on Quora:
i) DEVELOPING CRITICAL THINKING:
My take, drawn from my personal library, not in any particular order:
1) Asking the Right Question, by Neil Brown;
2) Critical Thinking: Tools for Taking Charge of Your Professional and Personal Life, by Richard Paul &
Linda Elder;
3) Being Logical, by Dennis McInerny;
4) The Art of Thinking, by Rolf Dobelli;
5) The Five Elements of Effective Thinking, by Edward Bunger;
6) Don't Believe Everything You Think, by Thomas Kida;
7) Thinking Fast & Slow, by Daniel Kahneman;
8) A Rulebook for Arguments, by Anthony Weston;
9) A More Beautiful Question, by Warren Berger;
10) The Organised Mind: Thinking Straight in the Age of Information Overload, by Daniel Levithin;
ii) IMPROVING THINKING & DEVELOPING INTELLIGENT MIND:
My personal take, drawn from my own personal library, particularly relating to books on thinking and intelligence
amplification, which I have enjoyed reading and extracted the most in terms of learning takeaways:
1. Lateral Thinking, by Edward de Bono;

2. Brain Power: Learn to Improve Your Thinking Skills, by Karl Albrecht;
3. The Einstein Factor: A Proven New Method for Increasing Your Intelligence, by Win Wenger;
4. The Art of Thinking Clearly, by Rolf Dobelli;
5. The Art of Clear Thinking, by Rudolf Flesch;
6. Successful Intelligence, by Robert Sternberg;
7. Practical Intelligence for Everyday Life, by Robert Sternberg;
8. Practical Intelligence: The Art and Science of Common Sense, by Karl Albrecht;
9. The Mother of All Minds, by Dudley Lynch;
10. Leap! How to Think like a Dolphin, by Dudley Lynch;
11. The Thinker's Toolkit: 14 Powerful Techniques for Problem Solving, by Morgan Jones;
12. The Whole Brain Business Book, by Ned Herrmann;
13. Choosing the Future: The Power of Strategic Thinking, by Stuart Wells;
14. Elevate: The Three Disciplines of Advanced Strategic Thinking, by Rich Horwath;
15. Critical Thinking: Tools for Taking Charge of Your Learning and Your Life, by Richard Paul & Linda Elder;
16. Creative Solution Finding, by Gerald Nadler;
As a practical guide, I found the late Eli Goldratt's business novel "It's Not Luck" to be very useful. An unusual book, but (I
understand) based on case-studies where critical thinking was used to solve serious business issues. While Goldratt's books
tend to promote his own approach, this one in particular is very good at putting messy real-world difficulties on the table,
and showing in detail how the novel's protagonist deals with them.
How We Know What Isn't So: The Fallibility of Human Reason in Everyday Life by Thomas Gilovich.
If you liked Thinking, Fast and Slow- this is a similar book (Gilovich actually published a paper on the Hot Hand
fallacy in 1985 with Tversky) although there are significant differences both in the material and the aim of the
author.
What Makes a Genius?
Some minds are so exceptional they change the world. We don’t know exactly why these
people soar above the rest of us, but science offers us clues.
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The truest measure of genius is whether a person’s work resonates through the ages. At the Galleria dell’Accademia in
Florence, Italy, Michelangelo’s “David” towers over admiring visitors more than 500 years after the artist carved the 17-foot-
tall statue from a single block of marble discarded by other sculptors.
By Claudia Kalb
Photographs by Paolo Woods
This story appears in the May 2017 issue of National Geographic magazine.
The Mütter Museum in Philadelphia houses an array of singular medical specimens. On the lower level the fused
livers of 19th-century conjoined twins Chang and Eng float in a glass vessel. Nearby, visitors can gawk at hands
swollen with gout, the bladder stones of Chief Justice John Marshall, the cancerous tumor extracted from President
Grover Cleveland’s jaw, and a thighbone from a Civil War soldier with the wounding bullet still in place. But
there’s one exhibit near the entrance that elicits unmatchable awe. Look closely at the display, and you can see
smudge marks left by museumgoers pressing their foreheads against the glass.
The object that fascinates them is a small wooden box containing 46 microscope slides, each displaying a slice of
Albert Einstein’s brain. A magnifying glass positioned over one of the slides reveals a piece of tissue about the size
of a stamp, its graceful branches and curves resembling an aerial view of an estuary. These remnants of brain tissue
are mesmerizing even though—or perhaps because—they reveal little about the physicist’s vaunted powers of
cognition. Other displays in the museum show disease and disfigurement—the results of something gone wrong.
Einstein’s brain represents potential, the ability of one exceptional mind, one genius, to catapult ahead of everyone
else. “He saw differently from the rest of us,” says visitor Karen O’Hair as she peers at the tea-colored sample.
“And he could extend beyond that to what he couldn’t see, which is absolutely amazing.”
View Images
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Albert Einstein epitomizes genius, which has led to an abiding interest in his brain. In 1951 the physicist’s brain
waves were recorded; after his death in 1955, a pathologist mounted and dyed slices of it on glass slides. Many of
those slides (right) are at the National Museum of Health and Medicine in Silver Spring, Maryland.
Photograph by Philippe Halsman, Magnum Photos (Left)
Throughout history rare individuals have stood out for their meteoric contributions to a field. Lady Murasaki for her
literary inventiveness. Michelangelo for his masterful touch. Marie Curie for her scientific acuity. “The genius,”
wrote German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, “lights on his age like a comet into the paths of the planets.”
Consider Einstein’s impact on physics. With no tools at his disposal other than the force of his own thoughts, he
predicted in his general theory of relativity that massive accelerating objects—like black holes orbiting each other
—would create ripples in the fabric of space-time. It took one hundred years, enormous computational power, and
massively sophisticated technology to definitively prove him right, with the physical detection of such gravitational
waves less than two years ago.
Einstein revolutionized our understanding of the very laws of the universe. But our understanding of how a mind
like his works remains stubbornly earthbound. What set his brainpower, his thought processes, apart from those of
his merely brilliant peers? What makes a genius?
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A century after Einstein predicted the existence of gravitational waves—ripples in the fabric of space-time— in his general
theory of relativity, scientists like Kazuhiro Yamamoto (on bicycle) plan to use the first underground gravitational wave
telescope, KAGRA, in Hida, Japan, to explore what he deduced but could not detect.
Philosophers have long been pondering the origins of genius. Early Greek thinkers believed an overabundance of
black bile—one of the four bodily humors proposed by Hippocrates—endowed poets, philosophers, and other
eminent souls with “exalted powers,” says historian Darrin McMahon, author of Divine Fury: A History of Genius.
Phrenologists attempted to find genius in bumps on the head; craniometrists collected skulls—including
philosopher Immanuel Kant’s—which they probed, measured, and weighed.
None of them discovered a single source of genius, and such a thing is unlikely to be found. Genius is too elusive,
too subjective, too wedded to the verdict of history to be easily identified. And it requires the ultimate expression of
too many traits to be simplified into the highest point on one human scale. Instead we can try to understand it by
unraveling the complex and tangled qualities—intelligence, creativity, perseverance, and simple good fortune, to
name a few—that entwine to create a person capable of changing the world.
Intelligence has often been considered the default yardstick of genius—a measurable quality generating
tremendous accomplishment. Lewis Terman, the Stanford University psychologist who helped pioneer the IQ test,
believed a test that captured intelligence would also reveal genius. In the 1920s he began tracking more than 1,500
Californian schoolkids with IQs generally above 140—a threshold he labeled as “near genius or genius”—to see
how they fared in life and how they compared with other children. Terman and his collaborators followed the
participants, nicknamed “Termites,” for their lifetimes and mapped their successes in a series of reports, Genetic
Studies of Genius. The group included members of the National Academy of Sciences, politicians, doctors,
professors, and musicians. Forty years after the study began, the researchers documented the thousands of academic
reports and books they published, as well as the number of patents granted (350) and short stories written (about
400).
But monumental intelligence on its own is no guarantee of monumental achievement, as Terman and his
collaborators would discover. A number of the study’s participants struggled to thrive, despite their towering IQ
scores. Several dozen flunked out of college at first. Others, tested for the study but with IQs that weren’t high
enough to make the cut, grew up to become renowned in their fields, most famously Luis Alvarez and William
Shockley, both of whom won Nobel Prizes in physics. There’s precedent for such underestimation: Charles Darwin
recalled being considered “a very ordinary boy, rather below the common standard in intellect.” As an adult he
solved the mystery of how the splendid diversity of life came into being.
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Unexpected flashes of insight still require some thought. After seeing an apple fall perpendicularly to the ground in 1666,
Isaac Newton reasoned that, in a friend’s telling, “there must be a drawing power in matter.” The tree that sparked his law
of gravity remains rooted next to his childhood home at Woolsthorpe Manor, England.
Scientific breakthroughs like Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection would be impossible without
creativity, a strand of genius that Terman couldn’t measure. But creativity and its processes can be explained, to a
certain extent, by creative people themselves. Scott Barry Kaufman, scientific director of the Imagination Institute
in Philadelphia, has been bringing together individuals who stand out as trailblazers in their fields—people like
psychologist Steven Pinker and comedian Anne Libera of the Second City—to talk about how their ideas and
insights are kindled. Kaufman’s goal is not to elucidate genius—he considers the word to be a societal judgment
that elevates a chosen few while overlooking others—but to nurture imagination in everyone.
These discussions have revealed that the aha moment, the flash of clarity that arises at unexpected times—in a
dream, in the shower, on a walk—often emerges after a period of contemplation. Information comes in consciously,
but the problem is processed unconsciously, the resulting solution leaping out when the mind least expects it.
“Great ideas don’t tend to come when you’re narrowly focusing on them,” says Kaufman.
Studies of the brain offer hints at how these aha moments might happen. The creative process, says Rex Jung, a
neuroscientist at the University of New Mexico, relies on the dynamic interplay of neural networks operating in
concert and drawing from different parts of the brain at once—both the right and left hemispheres and especially
regions in the prefrontal cortex. One of these networks fosters our ability to meet external demands—activities we
must act on, like going to work and paying our taxes—and resides largely in outer areas of the brain. The other
cultivates internal thought processes, including daydreaming and imagining, and stretches mainly across the brain’s
middle region.
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Prodigious productivity is a defining characteristic of genius. Charcoal sketches cover the walls of a once concealed room
beneath the Medici Chapel in Florence, where Michelangelo hid for three months in 1530 after defying his patrons. The
drawings include a sketch of a seated figure (right) who appears on a tomb in the chapel above.
Jazz improvisation provides a compelling example of how neural networks interact during the creative process.
Charles Limb, a hearing specialist and auditory surgeon at UC San Francisco, designed an iron-free keyboard small
enough to be played inside the confines of an MRI scanner. Six jazz pianists were asked to play a scale and a piece
of memorized music and then to improvise solos as they listened to the sounds of a jazz quartet. Their scans
demonstrate that brain activity was “fundamentally different” while the musicians were improvising, says Limb.
The internal network, associated with self-expression, showed increased activity, while the outer network, linked to
focused attention and also self-censoring, quieted down. “It’s almost as if the brain turned off its own ability to
criticize itself,” he says.
This may help explain the astounding performances of jazz pianist Keith Jarrett. Jarrett, who improvises concerts
that last for as long as two hours, finds it difficult—impossible, actually—to explain how his music takes shape.
But when he sits down in front of audiences, he purposefully pushes notes out of his mind, moving his hands to
keys he had no intention of playing. “I’m bypassing the brain completely,” he tells me. “I am being pulled by a
force that I can only be thankful for.” Jarrett specifically remembers one concert in Munich, where he felt as if he
had disappeared into the high notes of the keyboard. His creative artistry, nurtured by decades of listening, learning,
and practicing melodies, emerges when he is least in control. “It’s a vast space in which I trust there will be music,”
he says.
One sign of creativity is being able to make connections between seemingly disparate concepts. Richer
communication between areas of the brain may help make those intuitive leaps possible. Andrew Newberg, director
of research at the Marcus Institute of Integrative Health at Thomas Jefferson University Hospitals, is using
diffusion tensor imaging, an MRI contrast technique, to map neural pathways in the brains of creative people. His
participants, who come from Kaufman’s pool of big thinkers, are given standard creativity tests, which ask them to
come up with novel uses for everyday objects like baseball bats and toothbrushes. Newberg aims to compare the
connectivity in the brains of these high achievers against that of a group of controls to see if there is a difference in
how effectively the various regions of their brains interact. His ultimate goal is to scan as many as 25 in each
category and then pool the data so he can look for similarities within each group as well as differences that may
appear across vocations. For instance, are certain areas more active in a comedian’s brain compared with a
psychologist’s?
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Some 10,000 pairs of identical and fraternal twins are part of geneticist Robert Plomin’s longitudinal study at King’s College
London, providing clues about how genes and environment affect development. The genetics of intelligence are enormously
complex. “Most geniuses,” says Plomin, “don’t come from genius parents.”
A preliminary comparison of one “genius”—Newberg uses the word loosely to distinguish the two groups of
participants—and one control reveals an intriguing contrast. On the subjects’ brain scans, swaths of red, green, and
blue illuminate tracts of white matter, which contain the wiring that allows neurons to transmit electrical messages.
The red blotch on each image is the corpus callosum, a centrally located bundle of more than 200 million nerve
fibers that joins the two hemispheres of the brain and facilitates connectivity between them. “The more red you
see,” Newberg says, “the more connecting fibers there are.” The difference is notable: The red section of the
“genius” brain appears to be about twice as wide as the red of the control brain.
“This implies that there’s more communication going on between the left and the right hemispheres, which one
might expect in people who are highly creative,” says Newberg, stressing that this is an ongoing study. “There’s
more flexibility in their thought processes, more contributions from different parts of the brain.” The green and blue
swaths show other areas of connectivity, stretching from front to back—including dialogue among the frontal,
parietal, and temporal lobes—and may reveal additional clues, says Newberg. “I don’t know yet what else we might
find out. This is just one piece.”
Even as neuroscientists try to understand how the brain fosters the development of paradigm-shifting thought
processes, other researchers are wrestling with the question of when and from what this capacity develops. Are
geniuses born or made? Francis Galton, a cousin of Darwin, objected to what he called “pretensions of natural
equality,” believing that genius was passed down through family bloodlines. To prove it, he mapped the lineages of
an array of European leaders in disparate fields—from Mozart and Haydn to Byron, Chaucer, Titus, and Napoleon.
In 1869 Galton published his results in Hereditary Genius, a book that would launch the “nature versus nurture”
debate and spur the misbegotten field of eugenics. Geniuses were rare, Galton concluded, numbering roughly one in
a million. What was not unusual, he wrote, were the many instances “in which men who are more or less illustrious
have eminent kinsfolk.”
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Stephen Wiltshire, a British artist with autism, created an exquisitely accurate panorama of Mexico City after one
afternoon’s viewing and five days of drawing. Psychiatrist Darold Treffert believes that unique wiring between the
brain’s right and left hemispheres allows people like Wiltshire to access reserves of creativity. Watch Wiltshire
draw an entire city from memory.
Advances in genetic research now make it possible to examine human traits at the molecular level. Over the past
several decades, scientists have been searching for genes that contribute to intelligence, behavior, and even unique
qualities like perfect pitch. In the case of intelligence, this research triggers ethical concerns about how it might be
used; it is also exceedingly complex, as thousands of genes may be involved—each one with a very small effect.
What about other kinds of abilities? Is there something innate in having an ear for music? Numerous accomplished
musicians, including Mozart and Ella Fitzgerald, are believed to have had perfect pitch, which may have played a
role in their extraordinary careers.
Genetic potential alone does not predict actual accomplishment. It also takes nurture to grow a genius. Social and
cultural influences can provide that nourishment, creating clusters of genius at moments and places in history:
Baghdad during Islam’s Golden Age, Kolkata during the Bengal Renaissance, Silicon Valley today.
A hungry mind can also find the intellectual stimulation it needs at home—as in suburban Adelaide, Australia, in
the case of Terence Tao, widely considered one of the greatest minds currently working in mathematics. Tao
showed a remarkable grasp of language and numbers early in life, but his parents created the environment in which
he could flourish. They provided him with books, toys, and games and encouraged him to play and learn on his own
—a practice his father, Billy, believes stimulated his son’s originality and problem-solving skills. Billy and his
wife, Grace, also sought out advanced learning opportunities for their son as he began his formal education, and he
was fortunate to meet educators who helped foster and stretch his mind. Tao enrolled in high school classes when
he was seven years old, scored 760 on the math section of the SAT at age eight, went to university full-time when
he was 13, and became a professor at UCLA at 21. “Talent is important,” he once wrote on his blog, “but how one
develops and nurtures it is even more so.”
Age and Achievement
Marie Curie
Discovered radium
Chemistry
works
by 46 chemists
Are you over the hill? Depends on what
you’re trying to achieve. In 1953
psychologist Harvey Lehman published

what remains the most comprehensive
study of age and achievement. Using the
most cited works at the time—and the age
of each work’s creator—he illustrated when
outstanding achievement is most likely by
discipline. There are exceptions: Giuseppe
Verdi composed Aida at 58, two decades
older than grand opera’s peak age range.
Lehman offered 16 factors for why
achievement occurs when it does, including
declining health and motivation as we age.
Psychologist Dean Keith Simonton, an
expert on genius, maintains that the arc of a
career depends on two things: your chosen
discipline, and how soon you master it.
Poets tend to turn ideas into finished works
faster than novelists; within a field, geniuses
are the quickest studies. “Individual
differences are actually so large that they
swamp the impact of age,” wrote Simonton.
“A first-rate genius at 80 is worth more than
a second-rate talent at half that age.”
AGE
20
30
40
50
60
70
80
Srinivasa Ramanujan
Highly composite numbers
Mathematics
Albert Einstein
Theories of relativity
Isaac Newton
Principia
Physics
SCIENCE
Thomas Edison
Phonograph
Inventions
30-34
Sigmund Freud
Psychoanalysis
Psychology
AGE
20
30
40
50
60
70
80
Johannes Kepler
Astronomia Nova
Astronomy
40-44
J. S. Bach
Cello suites
Instrumental Music
10
20
25-29
Ludwig van Beethoven
Symphony No. 5
Symphonies
MUSIC
30-34
Giuseppe Verdi
Aida
Grand Operas
35-39
Rembrandt
Etching
“The Three Trees”
AGE
20
30
40
50
60
70
80
Michelangelo
Years with highest
probability for producing
a work of genius
Sculpture
“David”
ART
Discipline
Number of works
by number of individuals
Name
Work
Michelangelo
Sistine Chapel ceiling
Painting
100%
35-39
AGE
20
30
40
50
60
William Wordsworth
Elizabeth Bishop
Poetry
“Tintern Abbey”
A LIFE’S WORK
Lehman divided the number of
works produced in each discipline
during each five-year interval by the
number of creators who were alive
in that span. He charted those rates
as percentages of peak output.
“Sestina”
25-29
William Shakespeare
Hamlet
Theater
LITERATURE
Virginia Woolf
Mrs Dalloway
Novels
AGE
20
30
40
50
60
70
80
Oliver Uberti. CONSULTANT: DEAN KEITH SIMONTON, PROFESSOR EMERITUS, University of California, DAVIS
Source: age and Achievement, by Harvey C. Lehman
Social Networks of Genius
Lone geniuses are exceedingly rare. Dean Keith Simonton scoured biographical dictionaries for
mentions of relationships among 2,026 scientists and 772 artists. He found that members of each
field created within a web of connections, as shown below for Isaac Newton and Michelangelo.
8 idols
Donatello
Ghiberti
Giotto
Masaccio
14 idols, including
Bacon
Copernicus
Descartes
Galileo
Kepler
2 rivals
Leonardo
Signorelli
3 rivals
Hooke
Huygens
Leibniz
2 mentors
Bertoldo
Ghirlandaio
1 collaborator
Sebastiano
1 collaborator
Halley
1 mentor
Barrow
10 associates
Flamsteed
Michelangelo
Newton
2 apprentices
Cellini
Condivi
1 friend
Vasari
1 friend
Locke
40 admirers
Rubens
Titian
Velázquez
1 co-pupil
Torrigiano
12 admirers
Einstein
Euler
Goethe
According to the poet William
Wordsworth, Isaac Newton was “a mind
for ever Voyaging through strange seas of
Thought, alone.” But Newton knew the
leading scientists in Europe. He read their
work, and they read his. In a letter Newton
wrote, “If I have seen further it is by
standing on the shoulders of Giants.”
With help from his father, Michelangelo
landed an apprenticeship with Domenico
Ghirlandaio, a Florentine painter. The
teacher soon sent his gifted student to
work in Lorenzo de’ Medici’s sculpture
garden. That break immersed
Michelangelo in some of the world’s
greatest art—and its deepest pockets.
Oliver Uberti. Source: DEAN KEITH SIMONTON, PROFESSOR EMERITUS, University of California, DAVIS
Portrait Photos: Paul D. Stewart, Science Source (Newton); Scala/Art Resource, NY (Michelangelo)
Natural gifts and a nurturing environment can still fall short of producing a genius, without motivation and tenacity
propelling one forward. These personality traits, which pushed Darwin to spend two decades perfecting Origin of
Species and Indian mathematician Srinivasa Ramanujan to produce thousands of formulas, inspire the work of
psychologist Angela Duckworth. She believes that a combination of passion and perseverance—what she calls
“grit”—drives people to achieve. Duckworth, herself a MacArthur Foundation “genius” and a professor of
psychology at the University of Pennsylvania, says the concept of genius is too easily cloaked in layers of magic, as
if great achievement erupts spontaneously with no hard work. She believes there are differences when it comes to
individual talent, but no matter how brilliant a person, fortitude and discipline are critical to success. “When you
really look at somebody who accomplishes something great,” she says, “it is not effortless.”
Nor does it happen on the first try. “The number one predictor of impact is productivity,” says Dean Keith
Simonton, professor emeritus of psychology at UC Davis and a longtime scholar of genius. Big hits emerge after
many attempts. “Most articles published in the sciences are never cited by anybody,” says Simonton. “Most
compositions are not recorded. Most works of art aren’t displayed.” Thomas Edison invented the phonograph and
the first commercially viable light bulb, but these were just two of the thousand-plus U.S. patents he was awarded.
Lack of support can stunt prospects for potential geniuses; they never get the chance to be productive. Throughout
history women have been denied formal education, deterred from advancing professionally, and under-recognized
for their achievements. Mozart’s older sister, Maria Anna, a brilliant harpsichordist, had her career cut short by her
father when she reached the marriageable age of 18. Half the women in the Terman study ended up as homemakers.
People born into poverty or oppression don’t get a shot at working toward anything other than staying alive. “If you
do believe that genius is this thing that can be singled out and cultivated and nurtured,” says historian Darrin
McMahon, “what an incredible tragedy that thousands of geniuses or potential geniuses have withered and died.”
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The Power of Letting Go
Using fMRI brain scans (below), hearing specialist Charles Limb has found that jazz musicians and freestyle
rappers suppress the self-monitoring part of their brains as they improvise. Limb plans to use
electroencephalography, or EEG, to measure electrical activity in the brains of other creative individuals, including
comedians; he tries it out on himself in his lab at UC San Francisco (above).
The Power of Letting GoLegendary Cyphers, a freestyle rap group, performs on Friday nights at Union Square Park in New
York City. Collaboration fuels the event as artists take turns “spitting” lyrics. Like any creative undertaking, rapping requires
practice. “If you do this enough, it’s like a muscle,” says Palladium Philoz, one of the group’s organizers.
The Power of Letting Go
Jazz pianist Keith Jarrett improvises concerts that last for as long as two hours. "The only thing that works," he
says, “is letting go.”
Lateral prefrontal deactivation
Self-monitoring
Medial prefrontal activation
Self-expression
Charles Limb (brain image)
An fMRI brain scan illustrates brain activity during improvisation.
Sometimes, by sheer good fortune, promise and opportunity collide. If there were ever an individual who
personified the concept of genius in every aspect, from its ingredients to its far-reaching impact, it would be
Leonardo da Vinci. Born in 1452 to unmarried parents, Leonardo began life in a stone farmhouse in Italy’s Tuscan
hills, where olive trees and dusky blue clouds blanket the Arno Valley. From these simple beginnings, Leonardo’s
intellect and artistry soared like Schopenhauer’s comet. The breadth of his abilities—his artistic insights, his
expertise in human anatomy, his prescient engineering—is unparalleled.
Leonardo’s pathway to genius began with an apprenticeship with master artist Andrea del Verrocchio in Florence
when he was a teenager. Leonardo’s creativity was so robust that in his lifetime he filled thousands of pages in his
notebooks, which brimmed with studies and designs, from the science of optics to his famed inventions, including a
revolving bridge and a flying machine. He persisted no matter the challenge. “Obstacles cannot crush me,” he
wrote. “He who is fixed to a star does not change his mind.” Leonardo also lived in a place (Florence) and at a time
(the Italian Renaissance) when the arts were cultivated by wealthy patrons and inventiveness coursed through the
streets, where great minds, including Michelangelo and Raphael, jostled for acclaim.
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Making Connections
Andrew Newberg, in his lab at Thomas Jefferson University, uses MRI technology to examine the neurological
components of creativity by comparing the brains of “geniuses” to a control group.
Making Connections
Preliminary findings indicate that “genius” brains (example at right) have more connecting nerve fibers (shown in
red) between the left and right hemispheres and thus more communication.
Leonardo delighted in envisioning the impossible—hitting a target that, as Schopenhauer wrote, “others cannot
even see.” Today an international group of scholars and scientists has taken on a similar mission, and its subject is
just as elusive: Leonardo himself. The Leonardo Project is tracing the artist’s genealogy and hunting down his DNA
to learn more about his ancestry and physical characteristics, to verify paintings that have been attributed to him—
and, most remarkably, to search for clues to his extraordinary talent.
Team member David Caramelli’s high-tech molecular anthropology lab at the University of Florence sits in a 16th-
century building with a glorious view of the Florentine skyline. Jutting out majestically is the dome of the city’s
prominent cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore, whose original crowning copper-gilt ball was made by Verrocchio and
raised to the top of the cupola with Leonardo’s help in 1471. This juxtaposition of past and present is a fitting
setting for Caramelli’s expertise in ancient DNA. Two years ago he published preliminary genetic analyses of a
Neanderthal skeleton. Now he is poised to apply similar techniques to Leonardo’s DNA, which the team is hoping
to extract from some form of biological relic—the artist’s bones, a strand of hair, skin cells left behind on his
paintings or notebooks, or perhaps even saliva, which Leonardo may have used to prepare canvases for his
silverpoint drawings.
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Throughout history bright minds have flocked to nexuses of creativity like Silicon Valley, where Wenzhao Lian, a researcher
at Vicarious, an artificial intelligence company, teaches a robot how to recognize and manipulate objects. The company aims
to develop programs that mimic the brain’s capacity for vision, language, and motor control.
It is an ambitious plan, but team members are optimistically laying the groundwork. Genealogists are tracking down
Leonardo’s living relatives on his father’s side for cheek swabs, which Caramelli will use to identify a genetic
marker to confirm the authenticity of Leonardo’s DNA if it is found. Physical anthropologists are seeking access to
remains that are believed to be Leonardo’s at Amboise castle in France’s Loire Valley, where he was buried in
1519. Art historians and geneticists, including specialists at the institute of genomics pioneer J. Craig Venter, are
experimenting with techniques to obtain DNA from fragile Renaissance-era paintings and paper. “The wheels are
starting to turn,” says Jesse Ausubel, vice chairman of the Richard Lounsbery Foundation and an environmental
scientist at Rockefeller University in New York City, who is coordinating the project.
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Mathematician Terence Tao’s formulas on fluid dynamics are written on the blackboard behind him. Hailed for his
“otherworldly ingenuity,” Tao won the prestigious Fields Medal in 2006 at the age of 31. Yet he rejects lofty notions of
genius. What really matters, he writes, is “hard work, directed by intuition, literature, and a bit of luck.”
One of the group’s early goals is to explore the possibility that Leonardo’s genius stemmed not only from his
intellect, creativity, and cultured environment but also from his exemplary powers of perception. “In the same way
that Mozart may have had extraordinary hearing,” says Ausubel, “Leonardo appears to have had extraordinary
visual acuity.” Some of the genetic components of vision are well identified, including the red and green color-
vision pigment genes, located on the X chromosome. Thomas Sakmar, a specialist in sensory neuroscience at
Rockefeller, says it’s conceivable that scientists could explore those regions of the genome to see if Leonardo had
any unique variations that changed his color palette, allowing him to see more hues of red or green than most
people are able to perceive.
The Leonardo Project team doesn’t yet know where to look for answers to other questions, such as how to explain
Leonardo’s remarkable ability to visualize birds in flight. “It’s as if he was creating stroboscopic photographs of
stop-action,” says Sakmar. “It’s not far-fetched that there would be genes related to that ability.” He and his
colleagues view their work as the beginning of an expedition that will lead them down new pathways as DNA gives
up its secrets.
The quest to unravel the origins of genius may never reach an end point. Like the universe, its mysteries will
continue to challenge us, even as we reach for the stars. For some, that is as it should be. “I don’t want to figure it
out at all,” says Keith Jarrett when I ask if he is comfortable not knowing how his music takes hold. “If someone
offered me the answer, I’d say, Take it away.” In the end it may be that the journey is illuminating enough and that
the insights it reveals along the way—about the brain, about our genes, about the way we think—will nurture
glimmers of genius in not just the rare individual but in us all.
To learn more about Albert Einstein, tune in to National Geographic’s 10-part series Genius, which airs Tuesdays starting
April 25.
Claudia Kalb wrote Andy Warhol Was a Hoarder: Inside the Minds of History’s Great Personalities for National Geographic
Books. Photographer Paolo Woods lives in Florence, Italy. This is his first story for the magazine.
Find out if you could be related to a genius with the new Geno 2.0 kit, available at genographic.com/genius.
The Making of a Scientist” by Richard Feynman
Raised in an era when expectations for boys were different than those of girls, Dr. Feynman explains his original
interest in science.
Before I was born, my father told my mother, “If it’s a boy, he’s going to be a scientist.” When I was just a little
kid, very small in a highchair, my father brought home a lot of little bathroom tiles—seconds—of different colors.
We played with them, my father setting them up vertically on my highchair like dominoes, and I would push one
end so they would all go down.
Then after a while, I’d help set them up. Pretty soon, we’re setting them up in a more complicated way: two white
tiles and a blue tile, two white tiles and a blue tile, and so on. When my mother saw that she said, “Leave the poor
child alone. If he wants to put a blue tile, let him put a blue tile.”
But my father said, “No, I want to show him what patterns are like and how interesting they are. It’s a kind of
elementary mathematics.” So he started very early to tell me about the world and how interesting it is.
We had the Encyclopaedia Britannica at home. When I was a small boy he used to sit me on his lap and read to me
from the Britannica. We would be reading, say, about dinosaurs. It would be talking about the Tyrannosaurus rex,
and it would say something like, “This dinosaur is twenty-five feet high and its head is six feet across.”
My father would stop reading and say, “Now, let’s see what that means. That would mean that if he stood in our
front yard, he would be tall enough to put his head through our window up here.” (We were on the second floor.)
“But his head would be too wide to fit in the window.” Everything he read to me he would translate as best he could
into some reality.
It was very exciting and very, very interesting to think there were animals of such magnitude—and that they all
died out, and that nobody knew why. I wasn’t frightened that there would be one coming in my window as a
consequence of this. But I learned from my father to translate: everything I read I try to figure out what it really
means, what it’s really saying.
We used to go to the Catskill Mountains, a place where people from New York City would go in the summer. The
fathers would all return to New York to work during the week and come back only for the weekend. On weekends,
my father would take me for walks in the woods and he’d tell me about interesting things that were going on in the
woods. When the other mothers saw this, they thought it was wonderful and that the other fathers should take their
sons for walks. They tried to work on them but they didn’t get anywhere at first. They wanted my father to take all
the kids, but he didn’t want to because he had a special relationship with me. So it ended up that the other fathers
had to take their children for walks the next weekend.
The next Monday, when the fathers were all back at work, we kids were playing in a field. One kid says to me,
“See that bird? What kind of bird is that?”
I said, “I haven’t the slightest idea what kind of a bird it is.”
He says, “It’s a brown-throated thrush. Your father doesn’t teach you anything!”
But it was the opposite. He had already taught me: “See that bird?” he says. “It’s a Spencer’s warbler.” (I knew he
didn’t know the real name.) “Well, in Italian, it’s a Chutto Lapittida. In Portuguese it’s a Bom da Peida. In Chinese,
it’s a Chung-long-tah, and in Japanese, it’s a Katano Tekeda. You can know the name of the bird in all the
languages of the world, but when you’re finished, you’ll know absolutely nothing whatever about the bird. You’ll
only know about humans in different places, and what they call the bird. So let’s look at the bird and see what it’s
doing—that’s what counts.” (I learned very early the difference between knowing the name of something and
knowing something.)
He said, “For example, look: the bird pecks at its feathers all the time. See it walking around, pecking at its
feathers?”
“Yeah.”
He says, “Why do you think birds peck at their feathers?”

I said, “Well, maybe they mess up their feathers when they fly, so they’re pecking them in order to straighten them
out.”
“All right,” he says. “If that were the case, then they would peck a lot just after they’ve been flying. Then, after
they’ve been on the ground a while, they wouldn’t peck so much anymore—you know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
He says, “Let’s look and see if they peck more just after they land.”
It wasn’t hard to tell: there was not much difference between the birds that had been walking around a bit and those
that had just landed. So I said, “I give up. Why does a bird peck at its feathers?”
“Because there are lice bothering it,” he says. “The lice eat flakes of protein that come off its feathers.”
He continued, “Each louse has some waxy stuff on its legs, and little mites eat that. The mites don’t digest it
perfectly, so they emit from their rear ends a sugarlike material, in which bacteria grow.”
Finally he says, “So you see, everywhere there’s a source of food, there’s some form of life that finds it.”
Now, I knew that it may not have been exactly a louse, that it might not be exactly true that the louse’s legs have
mites. That story was probably incorrect in detail, but what he was telling me was right in principle.
Not having experience with many fathers, I didn’t realize how remarkable he was. How did he learn the deep
principles of science and the love of it, what’s behind it, and why it’s worth doing? I never really asked him,
because I just assumed that those were things that fathers knew.
My father taught me to notice things. One day, I was playing with an “express wagon,” a little wagon with a railing
around it. It had a ball in it, and when I pulled the wagon, I noticed something about the way the ball moved.
I went to my father and said, “Say, Pop, I noticed something. When I pull the wagon, the ball rolls to the back of
the wagon. And when I’m pulling it along and I suddenly stop, the ball rolls to the front of the wagon. Why is
that?”
“That, nobody knows,” he said. “The general principle is that things which are moving tend to keep on moving, and
things which are standing still tend to stand still, unless you push them hard. This tendency is called ‘inertia,’ but
nobody knows why it’s true.” Now, that’s a deep understanding. He didn’t just give me the name.
He went on to say, “If you look from the side, you’ll see that it’s the back of the wagon that you’re pulling against
the ball, and the ball stands still. As a matter of fact, from the friction it starts to move forward a little bit in relation
to the ground. It doesn’t move back.”
I ran back to the little wagon and set the ball up again and pulled the wagon. Looking sideways, I saw that indeed
he was right. Relative to the sidewalk, it moved forward a little bit.
That’s the way I was educated by my father, with those kinds of examples and discussions: no pressure—just
lovely, interesting discussions. It has motivated me for the rest of my life, and makes me interested in all the
sciences. (It just happens I do physics better.)
I’ve been caught, so to speak—like someone who was given something wonderful when he was a child, and he’s
always looking for it again. I’m always looking, like a child, for the wonders I know I’m going to find—maybe not
every time, but every once in a while.

in the introduction to his book, psychiatrist Mark Epstein recounts the story of a smart and eager professor who
sought wisdom from an old Zen master. The master offered him tea and, on the professor's acceptance, poured the
tea into a cup. To the professor's dismay, however, the master kept pouring the tea into an overflowing cup, even as
the tea spread across the floor.
“A mind that is full cannot take in anything new,” the master explained. “Like this cup, you are full of opinions and
preconceptions.” Wisdom and happiness are to be found only by emptying one's cup.
With this story, Epstein illustrates what he believes is an important problem for modern Western culture. Trained to
approach life in the same way as the professor in the parable, Westerners tend to fill their lives with things and
knowledge the way the master filled the cup with tea. In the psychological arena, this gives rise to a sort of
psychological acquisitiveness, whereby we attempt to beef ourselves up with self-esteem, self-confidence, self-
expression, or self-control. The message of Buddhism, Epstein argues, is that this Western tendency to build and
strengthen the ego toward the ideal of a strong, individuated self will not work. We come to wisdom and peace of
mind only by acknowledging the difficulties that are created by the ego's blind need to control and by allowing
emptiness to be present as an inevitable and often valuable state.
Beginning with his own sense of emptiness as a boy in high school and then presenting a variety of Buddhist
parables, clinical anecdotes, and personal examples, Epstein recounts what he has learned so far in his lifelong
journey to understand the mind. Observations of his undergraduate classmates at Harvard, his contacts with the
Dalai Lama, his deepening ability to understand and live in both Eastern and Western worlds during medical school
and residency, and his subsequent contact with several schools of psychoanalysis, Gestalt therapy, and especially
the writings of Winnicott — this very personal journey reflects Epstein's growing conviction that the Western
psychological notion of what it means to have a self is flawed.
Western thought tends to pathologize what is understood in Buddhism as a universally human starting point for
wisdom and self-understanding. The “deficiencies” of childhood and the “errors” of adult life often do not represent
darkness or void, as they initially seem to, but rather, are occasions that create the possibility of life and freedom.
Human urges and conflicts are not necessarily pathologic; instead, they reflect the movement of life as it attempts to
become manifest within us. The point is to allow the conflicts to surface and become visible.
In response to the Western proclivity for knowledge, Epstein offers wisdom from the ancient texts of Buddhism; in
response to the Western bias toward individuation, he offers connection; in response to the emphasis on rational
mind, he offers mind-in-the-heart. In response to the warring of our cultural dualisms, whether between mind and
body, individual and community, or men and women, he offers unity and reciprocity. All of this becomes possible
through a “middle way” of nonjudgmental awareness that avoids either “attachment” or “aversion” to any of these
polarities and, in so doing, transforms experience. Then, says Epstein, one can live in the lion's den of life with
honesty and authenticity.
In sizing up the possible relevance of Eastern mysticism to Western postindustrial cultures, it is important to
understand that both Western science and Christianity were born in what we now call the East and that many
modern problems revolve around ways in which intellectual categories have been reshaped since then. In the
emergence of the intellectual basis of Western culture, science and values developed in reaction to each other and,
in so doing, became somewhat falsified and alienated from the way in which people actually lived their lives. The
most extreme separation occurred in Descartes's sharp isolation of the worlds of mind and matter. Since then,
medicine has come to view the body as a machine with parts that could be manipulated. Personhood came to be
understood as an increasingly large and fragmented number of components and functions, and academic inquiry
was cordoned off into disciplinary ghettos. It is only with growing recognition of the limits of the Cartesian–
Newtonian framework for solving human problems, the development of quantum mechanics, general-systems
theory, and brain science, and the increasing contact between the West and the East that these old separations are
breaking down.
In general, Epstein's discussion is balanced, and he is aware of the paradoxical nature of his topic. In his efforts to
explicate the Buddhist worldview, however, he occasionally parodies Western psychology and its notion of the self.
Self-esteem, self-confidence, the building of a strong self — these are not the problem, although some of his
statements could lead readers to believe otherwise. Instead, the problem arises when selfhood becomes the only
goal. To become oneself, one must also lose oneself. In the expression of an idea so dialectical, one statement
immediately implies its opposite. The sweetness of the “middle way” is not learned easily or quickly, and fictions
abound on both sides of the discussion.
Plato's Socrates once wondered whether he should be a politician or a physician — that is, whether he should try to
serve the existing tastes and interests of his fellow citizens or continually work to improve their minds and souls.
Going to Pieces without Falling Apart will appeal to physicians, therapists, and patients who, like Socrates, opt for
the latter.
"There is an expression in horseback riding circles that one is suppose to ride with 'soft eyes' letting the world go by
without focusing on any one thing too specifically. I learned about it from a patient who was having a problem
doing complicated jumps with her horse, but I was interested in the broader applications of what she discovered.
My patient, a young woman named Marilyn, was an accomplished rider, but, as she described it, she was 'too
involved' when it came to mastering a new set of hurdles. She was too focused on achievement, she told me, to
permit her 'soft eyes' to develop. Unable to relax into the jump, her tension and her desire for success interfered
with the horse's capacity to navigate the obstacles cleanly. Like an actor stumbling over her lines, Marilyn grew
more and more unsure of herself, and her performance became more and more self-conscious.
"One of her riding instructors showed Marilyn a way to distract herself from her worried anticipation. He urged her
to imagine that an additional turn took place after the final leap. He gave her a method of getting her mind out of
the way. This mental trick worked beautifully. Rather than becoming fixated on the jump as the culmination of her
efforts, Marilyn was able to set the jump up and then move on. As she was visualizing the imaginary turn, her horse
soared perfectly into the air. Because her mind was at ease, Marilyn was able to sit back and enjoy the fruits of her
efforts.
"As Marilyn told me her story, I realized that she had been resisting the critical moment when her self fell away,
when she and the horse and the jump became one. By worrying over how well she was doing, she was perpetuating
the hold of her ego, refusing to allow it to fade back into transparency. Her ambition had been interfering with her
success. Her riding instructor's efforts to show Marilyn her 'soft eyes' were attempts to bring forward her capacity
for unintegration, to allow her to surrender into the connection with her horse that the jump demanded. What was
interesting was that Marilyn needed a trick to make this natural thing happen. Telling her to have 'soft eyes' was not
enough; she needed something to do with her mind to get it out of the way. This is the function of meditation
practice: It provides a method of getting the mind out of the way so that we can be at one with our experience."
"...People come to me most often because they are unhappy with how cut off they feel, not because they are
not separate or individuated enough. The traditional view of therapy as building up the ego simply does not
do justice to what people's needs actually are. Most of us have developed our egos enough; what we suffer
from is the accumulated tension of that development. We have trouble surrendering ourselves..."
Going to Pieces Without Falling Apart

page 31
"The major obstacle to love, I have found, is a premature walling off of the personality that results in a
falseness or inauthenticity that other people can feel. Love, after all, requires a person to be open and
vulnerable, able to tolerate and enjoy the crossing of ego boundaries that occurs naturally under the spell of
passion...When someone is so uncomfortable with his own sense of emptiness that he struggles to keep it at
bay, there is no way he will be able to be open with another person..."

page 74
"The most basic fear experienced by people coming to see me for therapy is of being overwhelmed by the
force of their own emotions if they relax the grip of their egos. They fear that if they give up control, they will
lose control, that their unconscious will, if given a chance, rise up and inundate them. In some way, this
reflects the classic view of the unconscious as a seething cauldron of demonic forces that have to be tamed by
the light of reason and analysis. While respecting the power and complexity of the Freudian unconscious, my
Buddhist understanding has made me suspicious of my patients' fears. It is my experience that emotions, no
matter how powerful, are not overwhelming if given room to breathe. Contained within the vastness of
awareness, our emotions have the power to connect us with each other rather than driving us apart..."

page 111
[from the hardbound edition]
Find a good spot in your home or apartment, ideally where there isn’t too much clutter and you can find some quiet.
Leave the lights on or sit in natural light. You can even sit outside if you like, but choose a place with little
distraction.
At the outset, it helps to set an amount of time you’re going to “practice” for. Otherwise, you may obsess about
deciding when to stop. If you’re just beginning, it can help to choose a short time, such as five or ten minutes.
Eventually you can build up to twice as long, then maybe up to 45 minutes or an hour. Use a kitchen timer or the
timer on your phone. Many people do a session in the morning and in the evening, or one or the other. If you feel
your life is busy and you have little time, doing some is better than doing none. When you get a little space and
time, you can do a bit more.
How to Sit
Here’s a posture practice that can be used as the beginning stage of a period of meditation practice or simply as
something to do for a minute, maybe to stabilize yourself and find a moment of relaxation before going back into
the fray. If you have injuries or other physical difficulties, you can modify this to suit your situation.
1) Take your seat. Whatever you’re sitting on—a chair, a meditation cushion, a park bench—find a spot that gives
you a stable, solid seat, not perching or hanging back.
2) Notice what your legs are doing. If on a cushion on the floor, cross your legs comfortably in front of you. (If
you already do some kind of seated yoga posture, go ahead.) If on a chair, it’s good if the bottoms of your feet are
touching the floor.
3) Straighten—but don’t stiffen— your upper body. The spine has natural curvature. Let it be there. Your head
and shoulders can comfortably rest on top of your vertebrae.
4) Situate your upper arms parallel to your upper body. Then let your hands drop onto the tops of your legs.
With your upper arms at your sides, your hands will land in the right spot. Too far forward will make you hunch.
Too far back will make you stiff. You’re tuning the strings of your body—not too tight and not too loose.
5) Drop your chin a little and let your gaze fall gently downward. You may let your eyelids lower. If you feel
the need, you may lower them completely, but it’s not necessary to close your eyes when meditating. You can
simply let what appears before your eyes be there without focusing on it.
6) Be there for a few moments. Relax. Bring your attention to your breath or the sensations in your body.
7) Feel your breath—or some say “follow” it—as it goes out and as it goes in. (Some versions of this practice put
more emphasis on the outbreath, and for the inbreath you simply leave a spacious pause.) Either way, draw your
attention to the physical sensation of breathing: the air moving through your nose or mouth, the rising and falling of
your belly, or your chest. Choose your focal point, and with each breath, you can mentally note “breathing in” and
“breathing out.”
8) Inevitably, your attention will leave the breath and wander to other places. Don’t worry. There’s no need to
block or eliminate thinking. When you get around to noticing your mind wandering—in a few seconds, a minute,
five minutes—just gently return your attention to the breath.
9) Practice pausing before making any physical adjustments, such as moving your body or scratching an itch.
With intention, shift at a moment you choose, allowing space between what you experience and what you choose to
do.
10) You may find your mind wandering constantly—that’s normal, too. Instead of wrestling with or engaging
with those thoughts as much, practice observing without needing to react. Just sit and pay attention. As hard as it is
to maintain, that’s all there is. Come back over and over again without judgment or expectation.
11) When you’re ready, gently lift your gaze (if your eyes are closed, open them). Take a moment and notice
any sounds in the environment. Notice how your body feels right now. Notice your thoughts and emotions. Pausing
for a moment, decide how you’d like to continue on with your day.
That’s it. That’s the practice. It’s often been said that it’s very simple, but it’s not necessarily easy. The work is to
just keep doing it. Results will accrue.
If you want to learn more about mindfulness and how to practice mindfulness meditation, visit Mindful’s Getting
Started page.
The seismic events of 2016 have revealed a world in chaos – and one that old ideas of liberal rationalism can no
longer explain
by Pankaj Mishra
The election of Donald Trump as president of the United States is the biggest political earthquake of our times, and
its reverberations are inescapably global. It has fully revealed an enormous pent-up anger – which had first become
visible in the mass acclaim in Russia and Turkey for pitiless despots and the electoral triumph of bloody strongmen
in India and the Philippines.
The insurgencies of our time, including Brexit and the rise of the European far right, have many local causes – but
it is not an accident that demagoguery appears to be rising around the world. Savage violence has erupted in recent
years across a broad swath of territory: wars in Ukraine and the Middle East, insurgencies from Yemen to Thailand,
terrorism and counter-terrorism, economic and cyberwar. The conflicts, not confined to fixed battlefields, feel
endemic and uncontrollable. Hate-mongering against immigrants and minorities has gone mainstream; figures
foaming at the mouth with loathing and malice are ubiquitous on old and new media alike.
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There is much dispute about the causes of this global disorder. Many observers have characterised it as a backlash
against an out-of-touch establishment, explaining Trump’s victory – in the words of Thomas Piketty – as “primarily
due to the explosion in economic and geographic inequality in the United States”. Liberals tend to blame the racial
resentments of poor white Americans, which were apparently aggravated during Barack Obama’s tenure. But many
rich men and women – and even a small number of African-Americans and Latinos – also voted for a compulsive
groper and white supremacist.
The Nobel prize-winning economist Paul Krugman admitted on the night of Trump’s victory that “people like me –
and probably like most readers of the New York Times – truly didn’t understand the country we live in”. Since the
twin shocks of Brexit and the US election, we have argued ineffectually about their causes, while watching aghast
as the new representatives of the downtrodden and the “left-behind” – Trump and Nigel Farage, posing in a gold-
plated lift – strut across a bewilderingly expanded theatre of political absurdism.
But we cannot understand this crisis because our dominant intellectual concepts and categories seem unable to
process an explosion of uncontrolled forces.
In the hopeful years that followed the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, the universal triumph of liberal capitalism and
democracy seemed assured; free markets and human rights would spread around the world and lift billions from
poverty and oppression. In many ways, this dream has come true: we live in a vast, homogenous global market,
which is more literate, interconnected and prosperous than at any other time in history.
And yet we find ourselves in an age of anger, with authoritarian leaders manipulating the cynicism and discontent
of furious majorities. What used to be called “Muslim rage”, and identified with mobs of brown-skinned men with
bushy beards, is suddenly manifest globally, among saffron-robed Buddhist ethnic-cleansers in Myanmar, as well
as blond white nationalists in Germany. Violent hate crimes have blighted even the oldest of parliamentary
democracies, with the murder of the MP Jo Cox by a British neo-Nazi during the venomous campaign for Brexit.
Suddenly, as the liberal thinker Michael Ignatieff recently wrote: “Enlightenment humanism and rationalism” can
no longer adequately “explain the world we’re living in.”
The largely Anglo-American intellectual assumptions forged by the cold war and its jubilant aftermath are an
unreliable guide to today’s chaos – and so we must turn to the ideas of an earlier era of volatility. It is a moment for
thinkers such as Sigmund Freud, who warned in 1915 that the “primitive, savage and evil impulses of mankind
have not vanished in any individual”, but are simply waiting for the opportunity to show themselves again.
Certainly, the current conflagration has brought to the surface what Friedrich Nietzsche called “ressentiment” – “a
whole tremulous realm of subterranean revenge, inexhaustible and insatiable in outbursts.”
By contrast, the fundamental premise of our existing intellectual frameworks is the assumption that humans are
essentially rational and motivated by the pursuit of their own interests; that they principally act to maximise
personal happiness, rather than on the basis of fear, envy or resentment.
Trump, Brexit and the age of popular revolt: 2016 in

Long Reads
The bestseller Freakonomics is a perfect text of our time in its belief that “incentives are the cornerstone of modern
life,” and “the key to solving just about any riddle”. From this view, the current crisis is an irruption of the irrational
– and confusion and bewilderment are widespread among political, business and media elites. The ordinarily stolid
Economist has lately lurched from dubious indignation over “post-Truth politics” to the Rip Van Winkle-ish
declaration of “The New Nationalism”. Many other mainstream periodicals now read like parodies of New Left
Review, as they attend belatedly to the failings of global capitalism – most egregiously, its failure to fulfil its own
promise of general prosperity.
We can now see, all too clearly, a widening abyss of race, class and education in Britain and the US. But as
explanations proliferate, how it might be bridged is more unclear than ever. Well-worn pairs of rhetorical opposites,
often corresponding to the bitter divisions in our societies, have once again been put to work: progressive v
reactionary, open v closed, liberalism v fascism, rational v irrational. But as a polarised intellectual industry plays
catch-up with fast-moving events that it completely failed to anticipate, it is hard to avoid the suspicion that our
search for rational political explanations for the current disorder is doomed. All of the opponents of the new
“irrationalism” – whether left, centre, or right – are united by the presumption that individuals are rational actors,
motivated by material self-interest, enraged when their desires are thwarted, and, therefore, likely to be appeased by
their fulfilment.
This notion of human motivation deepened during the Enlightenment, whose leading thinkers, despising tradition
and religion, sought to replace them with the human capacity to rationally identify individual and collective
interests. The dream of the late 18th century, to rebuild the world along secular and rational lines, was further
elaborated in the 19th century by the utilitarian theorists of the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people
– and this notion of progress was embraced by socialists and capitalists alike.
After the collapse of the socialist alternative in 1989, this utopian vision took the form of a global market economy
dedicated to endless growth and consumption – to which there would be no alternative. According to this
worldview, the dominance of which is now nearly absolute, the human norm is Homo economicus, a calculating
subject whose natural desires and instincts are shaped by their ultimate motivation: to pursue happiness and avoid
pain.
This simple view always neglected many factors ever-present in human lives: the fear, for instance, of losing
honour, dignity and status, the distrust of change, the appeal of stability and familiarity. There was no place in it for
more complex drives: vanity, fear of appearing vulnerable, the need to save face. Obsessed with material progress,
the hyperrationalists ignored the lure of resentment for the left-behind, and the tenacious pleasures of victimhood.
And yet modern history provides enormous evidence for the persistent power of unreason. It was not so long ago –
in the early 19th century – that French pretensions to a rational, universal, and cosmopolitan civilisation first
provoked resentful Germans into the militant expression of what we now call “cultural nationalism”: the assertion
of authentic culture rooted in national or regional character and history.
One revolution after another since then has demonstrated that feelings and moods change the world by turning into
potent political forces. Fear, anxiety and a sense of humiliation were the principal motive of Germany’s
expansionist policy in the early 20th century – and it is impossible to understand the current upsurge of anti-western
sentiment in China, Russia and India without acknowledging the role played by humiliation.
Yet a mechanistic and materialist way of conceiving human actions has become entrenched, in part because
economics has become the predominant means of understanding the world. A view that took shape in the 19th
century – that there is “no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest” – has become orthodoxy
once again in an intellectual climate that views the market as the ideal form of human interaction and venerates
technological progress and the growth of GDP. All of this is part of the rigid contemporary belief that what counts
is only what can be counted and that what cannot be counted – subjective emotions – therefore does not.
A Brexit supporter, and a Vote Remain campaigner exchange views in Market Square, Northampton, on 31 May Photograph:
Christopher Furlong/Getty Images
Our current disregard of non-economic motivations is even more surprising when we learn that less than a century
ago, the Enlightenment’s “narrow rational programme” for individual happiness had already become “the butt of
ridicule and contempt” – as the Austrian modernist writer Robert Musil observed in 1922. Indeed, the pioneering
works of sociology and psychology as well as modernist art and literature of the early 20th century were defined in
part by their insistence that there is more to human beings than rational egoism, competition and acquisition, more
to society than a contract between logically calculating and autonomous individuals, and more to politics than
impersonal technocrats devising hyper-rational schemes of progress with the help of polls, surveys, statistics,
mathematical models and technology.
Writing in the 1860s, during the high noon of 19th-century liberalism, Fyodor Dostoevsky was one of the first
modern thinkers to air the suspicion, now troubling us again, that rational thinking does not decisively influence
human behaviour. He pitted his Underground Man – the quintessential loser dreaming of revenge against society’s
winners – against the idea of rational egoism, or material self-interest, then popular in Russia among eager readers
of John Stuart Mill and Jeremy Bentham. Dostoevsky’s protagonist obsessively assaults the shared rationalist
assumptions of both capitalists and socialists: that human beings are logically calculating animals, driven by
perceived incentives:
Oh, tell me who was it first announced, who was it first proclaimed, that man only does nasty things because he
does not know his own interests; and that if he were enlightened, if his eyes were opened to his real normal
interests, man would at once cease to do nasty things, would at once become good and noble because, being
enlightened and understanding his real advantage, he would see his own advantage in the good and nothing else?
Dostoevsky defined a style of thought that was later elaborated by Nietzsche, Freud, Max Weber and others – who
mounted a full-blown intellectual revolt against the oppressive certainties of rationalist ideologies, whether left,
right or centre. This is an intellectual revolution that is barely remembered today – but it erupted at an emotional
and political moment that would seem eerily familiar to us: a period of uneven and disruptive economic growth,
distrust of politicians, fear of change, and anxiety about rootless cosmopolitans, aliens and immigrants.
This was an era when the disaffected masses – recoiling from the 19th century’s prolonged experiment in laissez-
faire economic rationalism – had begun to fall for radical alternatives, in the form of blood-and-soil nationalism and
anarchist terrorism. This anti-liberal political uprising forced many of those we now regard as central figures of
20th-century intellectual life to question their fundamental notions of human behaviour, and to discard the positivist
nostrums that had taken root in the previous century.
By the late 1850s, Charles Darwin had already shattered the notion that human beings could control how they
develop – let alone build a rational society. Novelists, sociologists and psychologists examining the turbulent mass
societies of the late 19th century concluded that human actions could not be reduced to single causes, whether
religious and ideological faith, or the rationality of self-interest.
Freud, who lived in turn-of-the-century Vienna while demagogues were scapegoating Jews and liberals for the mass
suffering inflicted by industrial capitalism, came to see the rational intellect as “a feeble and dependent thing, a
plaything and tool of our impulses and emotions”. “One gets the impression,” Freud wrote in The Future of an
Illusion (1927) “that culture is something imposed on a reluctant majority by a minority that managed to gain
possession of the instruments of power and coercion.” Long before the 20th century’s explosions of demagoguery,
Max Weber, as he observed Germany’s hectic industrialisation, presciently speculated that individuals, unmoored
by socioeconomic turmoil and alienated by bureaucratic rationalisation, could become vulnerable to a despotic
leader.
The problem for these critics of Enlightenment rationalism, as Robert Musil defined it, was not that we “have
too much intellect and too little soul”, but that we have “too little intellect in matters of the soul”. We suffer even
more from this problem today as we struggle to make sense of the outbreaks of political irrationalism. Committed
to seeing the individual self as a rational actor, we fail to see that it is a deeply unstable entity, constantly shaped
and reshaped in its interplay with shifting social and cultural conditions. In our own time, amid what Hannah
Arendt described as a “tremendous increase in mutual hatred and a somewhat universal irritability of everybody
against everybody else”, this fragile self has become particularly vulnerable to ressentiment.
Ressentiment – caused by an intense mix of envy, humiliation and powerlessness – is not simply the French word
for resentment. Its meaning was shaped in a particular cultural and social context: the rise of a secular and
meritocratic society in the 18th century. Even though he never used the word, the first thinker to identify how
ressentiment would emerge from modern ideals of an egalitarian and commercial society was Jean-Jacques
Rousseau. An outsider to the Parisian elite of his time, who struggled with envy, fascination, revulsion and
rejection, Rousseau saw how people in a society driven by individual self-interest come to live for the satisfaction
of their vanity – the desire and need to secure recognition from others, to be esteemed by them as much as one
esteems oneself.
But this vanity, luridly exemplified today by Donald Trump’s Twitter account, often ends up nourishing in the soul
a dislike of one’s own self while stoking impotent hatred of others; and it can quickly degenerate into an aggressive
drive, whereby individuals feel acknowledged only by being preferred over others, and by rejoicing in their
abjection. (As Gore Vidal pithily put it: “It is not enough to succeed. Others must fail.”)
Such ressentiment breeds in proportion to the spread of the principles of equality and individualism. In the early
20th century, the German sociologist Max Scheler developed a systematic theory of ressentiment as a distinctly
modern phenomenon – ingrained in all societies where formal social equality between individuals coexists with
massive differences in power, education, status, and property ownership. In an era of globalised commerce, these
disparities now exist everywhere, along with enlarged notions of individual aspiration and equality. Accordingly,
ressentiment, an existential resentment of others, is poisoning civil society and undermining political liberty
everywhere.
But what makes ressentiment particularly malign today is a growing contradiction. The ideals of modern democracy
– the equality of social conditions and individual empowerment – have never been more popular. But they have
become more and more difficult, if not impossible, to actually realise in the grotesquely unequal societies created
by our brand of globalised capitalism.
The past two decades of hectic globalisation have brought us closer than ever before to the liberal Enlightenment
ideal of a universal commercial society of self-interested, rational and autonomous individuals – one that was
originally advocated in the 18th century by such thinkers as Montesquieu, Voltaire, Adam Smith, and Kant. In the
19th century, it was still possible for Marx to sneer at Jeremy Bentham for assuming “the modern shopkeeper,
especially the English shopkeeper, as the normal man”. In our own time, however, the ideology of neoliberalism – a
market-centric hybrid of Enlightenment rationalism and 19th-century utilitarianism – has achieved near total
domination in the economic and political realm alike.
The success of this universal creed can be attested by many innovations of recent decades that now look perfectly
natural. The rational market is expected to ensure the supply of valuable products and services, while the task of
governments is to ensure fair competition, which produces “winners” and “losers”. The broad intellectual
revolution in which an all-knowing market judges failure and success has even more forcefully insisted on the
rationality of the individual.
Issues of social justice and equality have receded along with conceptions of society or community – to be replaced
by the freely choosing individual in the marketplace. According to the prevailing view today, the injustices
entrenched by history or social circumstances cease to matter: the slumdog, too, can be a millionaire, and the
individual’s failure to escape the underclass is self-evident proof of his poor choices.
Us v Them: the birth of populism

But this abstract conception has no room for the emotional situation of real, flesh-and-blood people – and how they
might act within concrete social and historical settings.
One of the first people to notice the disturbing complex of emotions we now see among self-seeking individuals
around the world was Alexis de Tocqueville – who was already worried in the 1830s that the American promise of
meritocracy, its uniformity of culture and manners, and “equality of conditions” would make for immoderate
ambition, corrosive envy and chronic dissatisfaction. The passion for equality, he warned, could swell “to the height
of fury” and lead many to acquiesce in a curtailment of their liberties, and to long for the rule of a strongman.
As De Tocqueville pointed out, people liberated from old hierarchies “want equality in freedom, and, if they cannot
get it, they still want it in slavery.”
We witness a universal frenzy of fear and loathing today because the democratic revolution De Tocqueville
witnessed has spread from its American centre to the remotest corners of the world. The rage for equality is
conjoined with the pursuit of prosperity mandated by the global consumer economy, aggravating tensions and
contradictions in inner lives that are then played out in the public sphere.
“To live in freedom,” De Tocqueville warned, “one must grow used to a life full of agitation, change and danger.”
This kind of life is barren of stability, security, identity and honour, even when it overflows with material goods.
Nevertheless, it is now commonplace among people around the world that rational considerations of utility and
profit – the needs of supply chains and the imperatives of quarterly shareholder returns – uproot, humiliate and
render obsolete.
The widespread experience of the maelstrom of modernity has only heightened the lure of ressentiment. Many new
individuals now “live in freedom”, in De Tocqueville’s words, even as they are enslaved by finely integrated
political, economic and cultural powers: the opaque workings of finance capital, the harsh machinery of social
security, juridical and penal systems, and the unrelenting ideological influence of the media and the internet.
Never have so many free individuals felt so helpless – so desperate to take back control from anyone they can
blame for their feeling of having lost it. It should not be surprising that we have seen an exponential rise in hatred
of minorities, the main pathology induced by political and economic shocks. These apparent racists and misogynists
have clearly suffered silently for a long time from what Albert Camus called “an autointoxication – the evil
secretion, in a sealed vessel, of prolonged impotence”. It was this gangrenous ressentiment, festering for so long in
places such as the Daily Mail and Fox News, that erupted volcanically with Trump’s victory.
Rich and poor alike voting for a serial liar and tax dodger have confirmed yet again that human desires operate
independently of the logic of self-interest – and may even be destructive of it. Our political and intellectual elites
midwifed the new “irrationalism” through a studied indifference to the emotional dislocation and economic
suffering induced by modern capitalism. Not surprisingly, they are now unable to explain its rise. Indeed, their
universal assumption, hardened since 1989, that there are no alternatives to western-style democracy and capitalism
– the famous “end of history” – is precisely what has made us incapable of grasping the political phenomena
shaking the world today.
It is clear now that the exaltation of individual will as something free of social and historical pressures, and as
flexible as markets, concealed a breathtaking innocence about structural inequality and the psychic damage it
causes. The contemporary obsession with individual choice and human agency disregarded even the basic
discoveries of late-19th-century sociology: that in any mass society, life chances are unevenly distributed, there are
permanent winners and losers, a minority dominates the majority, and the elites are prone to manipulate and
deceive.
Even the terrorist attacks of 9/11 left undisturbed the vision in which a global economy built around free markets,
competition and rational individual choices would alleviate ethnic and religious differences and usher in worldwide
prosperity and peace. In this utopia, any irrational obstacles to the spread of liberal modernity – such as Islamic
fundamentalism – would be eventually eradicated. Fantasies of a classless and post-racial society of empowered
rational-choice actors bloomed as late as 2008, the year of the most devastating economic crisis since the Great
Depression.
How the education gap is tearing politics apart

Today, however, the basic assumptions of cold war liberalism lie in ruins – after decades of intellectual exertion to
construct flimsy oppositions between the rational west and the irrational east. The political big bang of our time
does not merely threaten the vanity projects of an intellectual elite, but the health of democracy itself – the defining
project of the modern world. Since the late 18th century, tradition and religion have been steadily discarded, in the
hope that rational, self-interested individuals can form a liberal political community that defines its shared laws,
ensuring dignity and equal rights for each citizen, irrespective of ethnicity, race, religion and gender. This basic
premise of secular modernity, which earlier only seemed menaced by religious fundamentalists, is now endangered
by elected demagogues in its very heartlands, Europe and the US.
Where do we go from here? We can of course continue to define the crisis of democracy through reassuring
dualisms: liberalism v authoritarianism, Islam v modernity, and that sort of thing. It may be more fruitful to think of
democracy as a profoundly fraught emotional and social condition – one which, aggravated by turbo-capitalism, has
now become unstable. This might allow us to examine the workings of ressentiment across varied countries and
classes, and to understand why ethno-nationalist supremacy has grown alongside economic stagnation in America
and Britain, even as it flourishes alongside economic expansion in India and Turkey. Or, why Donald Trump, the
flashy plutocrat tormented by his lowly status among Manhattan’s cultivated liberals, obsessively baits the New
York Times and calls for a boycott of the Broadway show Hamilton.
That a rancorous Twitter troll will soon become the world’s most powerful man is the latest of many reminders
that the idealised claims of western elites about democracy and liberalism never actually conformed to the political
and economic reality at home. A rowdy public culture of disparagement and admonition does not hide the fact that
the chasm of sensibility between a technocratic elite and the masses has grown. Everywhere, a majority that was
promised growing equality sees social power monopolised by people with money, property, connections and talent;
they feel shut out from both higher culture and decision-making.
Many people find it easy to aim their rage against an allegedly cosmopolitan and rootless cultural elite. Objects of
hatred are needed more than ever during times of crisis, and rich “citizens of nowhere” – as Theresa May dubbed
them – conveniently embody the vices of a desperately sought-after but infuriatingly unattainable modernity. And
so globalisation, which promotes integration among shrewd elites, helps incite ressentiment everywhere else,
especially among people forced against their will into universal competition.
In search of a balm for these wounds, many intellectuals have embraced nostalgic fantasies of vanished unity.
Earlier this year, the New York Times columnist David Brooks returned from communist Cuba gushing about
Cubans’ “fierce love of country, a sense of national solidarity and a confident patriotic spirit that is today lacking in
the United States.” More recently, Simon Jenkins, in this newspaper, and the intellectual historian Mark Lilla – in a
widely circulated New York Times opinion piece – have urged the rejection of “identity liberalism” and the
necessity of embracing national unity and common identity. As Trump’s victory was declared, Simon Schama
tweeted that we need a new Churchill to save democracy in Europe and America.
Such breast-beating amounts to a truly irrational demand: that the present abolish itself, making way for a return to
the past. Ideally, to the time when paternalistic white liberals occupied the vital centre, little disturbed by the needs
and desires of history’s forgotten, humiliated and silenced people.
These lamentations for simpler times – that all we lack is the right sort of spine-stiffening democratic leader, or
rational culture, or cultural unity, or patriotic spirit – ignore the fragmented nature of our politics. Social and
technological developments are not liberal or conservative, democratic or authoritarian; they are as prone to
enshrine LGBT rights as to reinstate torture and disseminate fake news. Nor does the longing for the good old days
adequately respond to the massive crisis of legitimacy facing democratic institutions today.
Political antidotes to the sinister pathologies unleashed by Putin, Erdoğan, Modi, Brexit and Trump require a
reckoning with the bad new days – something a lot more forward-looking than models of solidarity inspired by
Cuba or Churchill, nationalist pedagogies for the oppressed, or dauntless faith in globalisation eventually delivering
the promised goods.
Inside the Kremlin’s hall of mirrors

This work is necessary – but it can only proceed with a more sophisticated analysis of how today’s landscape of
hyperrational power has coerced a new and increasingly potent irrationalism into existence. And such analyses
would require, above all, a richer and more varied picture of human experience and needs than the prevailing image
of Homo economicus. This intellectual effort – which was first undertaken more than a century ago by the thinkers
cited here – would necessarily take us beyond liberalism and its faith in the curative power of economic growth.
What Robert Musil called the “liberal scraps of an unfounded faith in reason and progress” have yet again failed
modern human beings in their all-important task of understanding their experience. We once more confront the
possibility, outlined in Musil’s great novel about the collapse of liberal values, The Man Without Qualities, that the
characteristic desolation of the modern human being – his “immense loneliness in a desert of detail, his restlessness,
malice, incomparable callousness, his greed for money, his coldness and violence’ – is “the result of the losses that
logically precise thinking has inflicted on the soul”.
For nearly three decades, the religion of technology and GDP and the crude 19th-century calculus of self-interest
have dominated politics and intellectual life. Today, the society of entrepreneurial individuals competing in the
rational market reveals unplumbed depths of misery and despair; it spawns a nihilistic rebellion against order itself.
With so many of our landmarks in ruins, we can barely see where we are headed, let alone chart a path. But even to
get our basic bearings we need, above all, greater precision in matters of the soul. The stunning events of our age of
anger, and our perplexity before them, make it imperative that we anchor thought in the sphere of emotions; these
upheavals demand nothing less than a radically enlarged understanding of what it means for human beings to
pursue the contradictory ideals of freedom, equality and prosperity.
Otherwise, in our sterile infatuation with rational motivations and outcomes, we risk resembling those helpless
navigators who, De Tocqueville wrote, “stare obstinately at some ruins that can still be seen on the shore we have
left, even as the current pulls us along and drags us backward toward the abyss”.
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**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
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Title: My Life and Work
Author: Henry Ford
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MY LIFE AND WORK
By Henry Ford
In Collaboration With Samuel Crowther

CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION—WHAT IS THE IDEA?

I. THE BEGINNING
II. WHAT I LEARNED ABOUT BUSINESS
III. STARTING THE REAL BUSINESS
IV. THE SECRET OF MANUFACTURING AND SERVING
V. GETTING INTO PRODUCTION
VI. MACHINES AND MEN
VII. THE TERROR OF THE MACHINE.
VIII. WAGES
IX. WHY NOT ALWAYS HAVE GOOD BUSINESS?
X. HOW CHEAPLY CAN THINGS BE MADE?
XI. MONEY AND GOODS
XII. MONEY—MASTER OR SERVANT?
XIII. WHY BE POOR?
XIV. THE TRACTOR AND POWER FARMING
XV. WHY CHARITY?
XVI. THE RAILROADS
XVII. THINGS IN GENERAL
XVIII. DEMOCRACY AND INDUSTRY
XIX. WHAT WE MAY EXPECT.
INDEX
INTRODUCTION
WHAT IS THE IDEA?
We have only started on our development of our country—we have not as yet, with all our talk of
wonderful progress, done more than scratch the surface. The progress has been wonderful enough—
but when we compare what we have done with what there is to do, then our past accomplishments are
as nothing. When we consider that more power is used merely in ploughing the soil than is used in all
the industrial establishments of the country put together, an inkling comes of how much opportunity
there is ahead. And now, with so many countries of the world in ferment and with so much unrest
every where, is an excellent time to suggest something of the things that may be done in the light of
what has been done.
When one speaks of increasing power, machinery, and industry there comes up a picture of a cold,
metallic sort of world in which great factories will drive away the trees, the flowers, the birds, and the
green fields. And that then we shall have a world composed of metal machines and human machines.
With all of that I do not agree. I think that unless we know more about machines and their use, unless
we better understand the mechanical portion of life, we cannot have the time to enjoy the trees, and the
birds, and the flowers, and the green fields.
I think that we have already done too much toward banishing the pleasant things from life by thinking
that there is some opposition between living and providing the means of living. We waste so much
time and energy that we have little left over in which to enjoy ourselves.
Power and machinery, money and goods, are useful only as they set us free to live. They are but means
to an end. For instance, I do not consider the machines which bear my name simply as machines. If
that was all there was to it I would do something else. I take them as concrete evidence of the working
out of a theory of business, which I hope is something more than a theory of business—a theory that
looks toward making this world a better place in which to live. The fact that the commercial success of
the Ford Motor Company has been most unusual is important only because it serves to demonstrate, in
a way which no one can fail to understand, that the theory to date is right. Considered solely in this
light I can criticize the prevailing system of industry and the organization of money and society from
the standpoint of one who has not been beaten by them. As things are now organized, I could, were I
thinking only selfishly, ask for no change. If I merely want money the present system is all right; it
gives money in plenty to me. But I am thinking of service. The present system does not permit of the
best service because it encourages every kind of waste—it keeps many men from getting the full return
from service. And it is going nowhere. It is all a matter of better planning and adjustment.
I have no quarrel with the general attitude of scoffing at new ideas. It is better to be skeptical of all
new ideas and to insist upon being shown rather than to rush around in a continuous brainstorm after
every new idea. Skepticism, if by that we mean cautiousness, is the balance wheel of civilization. Most
of the present acute troubles of the world arise out of taking on new ideas without first carefully
investigating to discover if they are good ideas. An idea is not necessarily good because it is old, or
necessarily bad because it is new, but if an old idea works, then the weight of the evidence is all in its
favor. Ideas are of themselves extraordinarily valuable, but an idea is just an idea. Almost any one can
think up an idea. The thing that counts is developing it into a practical product.
I am now most interested in fully demonstrating that the ideas we have put into practice are capable of
the largest application—that they have nothing peculiarly to do with motor cars or tractors but form
something in the nature of a universal code. I am quite certain that it is the natural code and I want to
demonstrate it so thoroughly that it will be accepted, not as a new idea, but as a natural code.
The natural thing to do is to work—to recognize that prosperity and happiness can be obtained only
through honest effort. Human ills flow largely from attempting to escape from this natural course. I
have no suggestion which goes beyond accepting in its fullest this principle of nature. I take it for
granted that we must work. All that we have done comes as the result of a certain insistence that since
we must work it is better to work intelligently and forehandedly; that the better we do our work the
better off we shall be. All of which I conceive to be merely elemental common sense.
I am not a reformer. I think there is entirely too much attempt at reforming in the world and that we
pay too much attention to reformers. We have two kinds of reformers. Both are nuisances. The man
who calls himself a reformer wants to smash things. He is the sort of man who would tear up a whole
shirt because the collar button did not fit the buttonhole. It would never occur to him to enlarge the
buttonhole. This sort of reformer never under any circumstances knows what he is doing. Experience
and reform do not go together. A reformer cannot keep his zeal at white heat in the presence of a fact.
He must discard all facts.
Since 1914 a great many persons have received brand-new intellectual outfits. Many are beginning to
think for the first time. They opened their eyes and realized that they were in the world. Then, with a
thrill of independence, they realized that they could look at the world critically. They did so and found
it faulty. The intoxication of assuming the masterful position of a critic of the social system—which it
is every man's right to assume—is unbalancing at first. The very young critic is very much unbalanced.
He is strongly in favor of wiping out the old order and starting a new one. They actually managed to
start a new world in Russia. It is there that the work of the world makers can best be studied. We learn
from Russia that it is the minority and not the majority who determine destructive action. We learn
also that while men may decree social laws in conflict with natural laws, Nature vetoes those laws
more ruthlessly than did the Czars. Nature has vetoed the whole Soviet Republic. For it sought to deny
nature. It denied above all else the right to the fruits of labour. Some people say, "Russia will have to
go to work," but that does not describe the case. The fact is that poor Russia is at work, but her work
counts for nothing. It is not free work. In the United States a workman works eight hours a day; in
Russia, he works twelve to fourteen. In the United States, if a workman wishes to lay off a day or a
week, and is able to afford it, there is nothing to prevent him. In Russia, under Sovietism, the workman
goes to work whether he wants to or not. The freedom of the citizen has disappeared in the discipline
of a prison-like monotony in which all are treated alike. That is slavery. Freedom is the right to work a
decent length of time and to get a decent living for doing so; to be able to arrange the little personal
details of one's own life. It is the aggregate of these and many other items of freedom which makes up
the great idealistic Freedom. The minor forms of Freedom lubricate the everyday life of all of us.
Russia could not get along without intelligence and experience. As soon as she began to run her
factories by committees, they went to rack and ruin; there was more debate than production. As soon
as they threw out the skilled man, thousands of tons of precious materials were spoiled. The fanatics
talked the people into starvation. The Soviets are now offering the engineers, the administrators, the
foremen and superintendents, whom at first they drove out, large sums of money if only they will
come back. Bolshevism is now crying for the brains and experience which it yesterday treated so
ruthlessly. All that "reform" did to Russia was to block production.
There is in this country a sinister element that desires to creep in between the men who work with their
hands and the men who think and plan for the men who work with their hands. The same influence that
drove the brains, experience, and ability out of Russia is busily engaged in raising prejudice here. We
must not suffer the stranger, the destroyer, the hater of happy humanity, to divide our people. In unity
is American strength—and freedom. On the other hand, we have a different kind of reformer who
never calls himself one. He is singularly like the radical reformer. The radical has had no experience
and does not want it. The other class of reformer has had plenty of experience but it does him no good.
I refer to the reactionary—who will be surprised to find himself put in exactly the same class as the
Bolshevist. He wants to go back to some previous condition, not because it was the best condition, but
because he thinks he knows about that condition.
The one crowd wants to smash up the whole world in order to make a better one. The other holds the
world as so good that it might well be let stand as it is—and decay. The second notion arises as does
the first—out of not using the eyes to see with. It is perfectly possible to smash this world, but it is not
possible to build a new one. It is possible to prevent the world from going forward, but it is not
possible then to prevent it from going back—from decaying. It is foolish to expect that, if everything
be overturned, everyone will thereby get three meals a day. Or, should everything be petrified, that
thereby six per cent, interest may be paid. The trouble is that reformers and reactionaries alike get
away from the realities—from the primary functions.
One of the counsels of caution is to be very certain that we do not mistake a reactionary turn for a
return of common sense. We have passed through a period of fireworks of every description, and the
making of a great many idealistic maps of progress. We did not get anywhere. It was a convention, not
a march. Lovely things were said, but when we got home we found the furnace out. Reactionaries have
frequently taken advantage of the recoil from such a period, and they have promised "the good old
times"—which usually means the bad old abuses—and because they are perfectly void of vision they
are sometimes regarded as "practical men." Their return to power is often hailed as the return of
common sense.
The primary functions are agriculture, manufacture, and transportation. Community life is impossible
without them. They hold the world together. Raising things, making things, and earning things are as
primitive as human need and yet as modern as anything can be. They are of the essence of physical
life. When they cease, community life ceases. Things do get out of shape in this present world under
the present system, but we may hope for a betterment if the foundations stand sure. The great delusion
is that one may change the foundation—usurp the part of destiny in the social process. The foundations
of society are the men and means to grow things, to make things, and to carry things. As long as
agriculture, manufacture, and transportation survive, the world can survive any economic or social
change. As we serve our jobs we serve the world.
There is plenty of work to do. Business is merely work. Speculation in things already produced—that
is not business. It is just more or less respectable graft. But it cannot be legislated out of existence.
Laws can do very little. Law never does anything constructive. It can never be more than a policeman,
and so it is a waste of time to look to our state capitals or to Washington to do that which law was not
designed to do. As long as we look to legislation to cure poverty or to abolish special privilege we are
going to see poverty spread and special privilege grow. We have had enough of looking to Washington
and we have had enough of legislators—not so much, however, in this as in other countries—
promising laws to do that which laws cannot do.
When you get a whole country—as did ours—thinking that Washington is a sort of heaven and behind
its clouds dwell omniscience and omnipotence, you are educating that country into a dependent state of
mind which augurs ill for the future. Our help does not come from Washington, but from ourselves;
our help may, however, go to Washington as a sort of central distribution point where all our efforts
are coordinated for the general good. We may help the Government; the Government cannot help us.
The slogan of "less government in business and more business in government" is a very good one, not
mainly on account of business or government, but on account of the people. Business is not the reason
why the United States was founded. The Declaration of Independence is not a business charter, nor is
the Constitution of the United States a commercial schedule. The United States—its land, people,
government, and business—are but methods by which the life of the people is made worth while. The
Government is a servant and never should be anything but a servant. The moment the people become
adjuncts to government, then the law of retribution begins to work, for such a relation is unnatural,
immoral, and inhuman. We cannot live without business and we cannot live without government.
Business and government are necessary as servants, like water and grain; as masters they overturn the
natural order.
The welfare of the country is squarely up to us as individuals. That is where it should be and that is
where it is safest. Governments can promise something for nothing but they cannot deliver. They can
juggle the currencies as they did in Europe (and as bankers the world over do, as long as they can get
the benefit of the juggling) with a patter of solemn nonsense. But it is work and work alone that can
continue to deliver the goods—and that, down in his heart, is what every man knows.
There is little chance of an intelligent people, such as ours, ruining the fundamental processes of
economic life. Most men know they cannot get something for nothing. Most men feel—even if they do
not know—that money is not wealth. The ordinary theories which promise everything to everybody,
and demand nothing from anybody, are promptly denied by the instincts of the ordinary man, even
when he does not find reasons against them. He knows they are wrong. That is enough. The present
order, always clumsy, often stupid, and in many ways imperfect, has this advantage over any other—it
works.
Doubtless our order will merge by degrees into another, and the new one will also work—but not so
much by reason of what it is as by reason of what men will bring into it. The reason why Bolshevism
did not work, and cannot work, is not economic. It does not matter whether industry is privately
managed or socially controlled; it does not matter whether you call the workers' share "wages" or
"dividends"; it does not matter whether you regimentalize the people as to food, clothing, and shelter,
or whether you allow them to eat, dress, and live as they like. Those are mere matters of detail. The
incapacity of the Bolshevist leaders is indicated by the fuss they made over such details. Bolshevism
failed because it was both unnatural and immoral. Our system stands. Is it wrong? Of course it is
wrong, at a thousand points! Is it clumsy? Of course it is clumsy. By all right and reason it ought to
break down. But it does not—because it is instinct with certain economic and moral fundamentals.
The economic fundamental is labour. Labour is the human element which makes the fruitful seasons of
the earth useful to men. It is men's labour that makes the harvest what it is. That is the economic
fundamental: every one of us is working with material which we did not and could not create, but
which was presented to us by Nature.
The moral fundamental is man's right in his labour. This is variously stated. It is sometimes called "the
right of property." It is sometimes masked in the command, "Thou shalt not steal." It is the other man's
right in his property that makes stealing a crime. When a man has earned his bread, he has a right to
that bread. If another steals it, he does more than steal bread; he invades a sacred human right. If we
cannot produce we cannot have—but some say if we produce it is only for the capitalists. Capitalists
who become such because they provide better means of production are of the foundation of society.
They have really nothing of their own. They merely manage property for the benefit of others.
Capitalists who become such through trading in money are a temporarily necessary evil. They may not
be evil at all if their money goes to production. If their money goes to complicating distribution—to
raising barriers between the producer and the consumer—then they are evil capitalists and they will
pass away when money is better adjusted to work; and money will become better adjusted to work
when it is fully realized that through work and work alone may health, wealth, and happiness
inevitably be secured.
There is no reason why a man who is willing to work should not be able to work and to receive the full
value of his work. There is equally no reason why a man who can but will not work should not receive
the full value of his services to the community. He should most certainly be permitted to take away
from the community an equivalent of what he contributes to it. If he contributes nothing he should take
away nothing. He should have the freedom of starvation. We are not getting anywhere when we insist
that every man ought to have more than he deserves to have—just because some do get more than they
deserve to have.
There can be no greater absurdity and no greater disservice to humanity in general than to insist that all
men are equal. Most certainly all men are not equal, and any democratic conception which strives to
make men equal is only an effort to block progress. Men cannot be of equal service. The men of larger
ability are less numerous than the men of smaller ability; it is possible for a mass of the smaller men to
pull the larger ones down—but in so doing they pull themselves down. It is the larger men who give
the leadership to the community and enable the smaller men to live with less effort.
The conception of democracy which names a leveling-down of ability makes for waste. No two things
in nature are alike. We build our cars absolutely interchangeable. All parts are as nearly alike as
chemical analysis, the finest machinery, and the finest workmanship can make them. No fitting of any
kind is required, and it would certainly seem that two Fords standing side by side, looking exactly
alike and made so exactly alike that any part could be taken out of one and put into the other, would be
alike. But they are not. They will have different road habits. We have men who have driven hundreds,
and in some cases thousands of Fords and they say that no two ever act precisely the same—that, if
they should drive a new car for an hour or even less and then the car were mixed with a bunch of other
new ones, also each driven for a single hour and under the same conditions, that although they could
not recognize the car they had been driving merely by looking at it, they could do so by driving it.
I have been speaking in general terms. Let us be more concrete. A man ought to be able to live on a
scale commensurate with the service that he renders. This is rather a good time to talk about this point,
for we have recently been through a period when the rendering of service was the last thing that most
people thought of. We were getting to a place where no one cared about costs or service. Orders came
without effort. Whereas once it was the customer who favored the merchant by dealing with him,
conditions changed until it was the merchant who favored the customer by selling to him. That is bad
for business. Monopoly is bad for business. Profiteering is bad for business. The lack of necessity to
hustle is bad for business. Business is never as healthy as when, like a chicken, it must do a certain
amount of scratching for what it gets. Things were coming too easily. There was a let-down of the
principle that an honest relation ought to obtain between values and prices. The public no longer had to
be "catered to." There was even a "public be damned" attitude in many places. It was intensely bad for
business. Some men called that abnormal condition "prosperity." It was not prosperity— it was just a
needless money chase. Money chasing is not business.
It is very easy, unless one keeps a plan thoroughly in mind, to get burdened with money and then, in an
effort to make more money, to forget all about selling to the people what they want. Business on a
money-making basis is most insecure. It is a touch-and-go affair, moving irregularly and rarely over a
term of years amounting to much. It is the function of business to produce for consumption and not for
money or speculation. Producing for consumption implies that the quality of the article produced will
be high and that the price will be low—that the article be one which serves the people and not merely
the producer. If the money feature is twisted out of its proper perspective, then the production will be
twisted to serve the producer.
The producer depends for his prosperity upon serving the people. He may get by for a while serving
himself, but if he does, it will be purely accidental, and when the people wake up to the fact that they
are not being served, the end of that producer is in sight. During the boom period the larger effort of
production was to serve itself and hence, the moment the people woke up, many producers went to
smash. They said that they had entered into a "period of depression." Really they had not. They were
simply trying to pit nonsense against sense which is something that cannot successfully be done. Being
greedy for money is the surest way not to get it, but when one serves for the sake of service—for the
satisfaction of doing that which one believes to be right—then money abundantly takes care of itself.
Money comes naturally as the result of service. And it is absolutely necessary to have money. But we
do not want to forget that the end of money is not ease but the opportunity to perform more service. In
my mind nothing is more abhorrent than a life of ease. None of us has any right to ease. There is no
place in civilization for the idler. Any scheme looking to abolishing money is only making affairs
more complex, for we must have a measure. That our present system of money is a satisfactory basis
for exchange is a matter of grave doubt. That is a question which I shall talk of in a subsequent
chapter. The gist of my objection to the present monetary system is that it tends to become a thing of
itself and to block instead of facilitate production.
My effort is in the direction of simplicity. People in general have so little and it costs so much to buy
even the barest necessities (let alone that share of the luxuries to which I think everyone is entitled)
because nearly everything that we make is much more complex than it needs to be. Our clothing, our
food, our household furnishings—all could be much simpler than they now are and at the same time be
better looking. Things in past ages were made in certain ways and makers since then have just
followed.
I do not mean that we should adopt freak styles. There is no necessity for that Clothing need not be a
bag with a hole cut in it. That might be easy to make but it would be inconvenient to wear. A blanket
does not require much tailoring, but none of us could get much work done if we went around Indian-
fashion in blankets. Real simplicity means that which gives the very best service and is the most
convenient in use. The trouble with drastic reforms is they always insist that a man be made over in
order to use certain designed articles. I think that dress reform for women—which seems to mean ugly
clothes—must always originate with plain women who want to make everyone else look plain. That is
not the right process. Start with an article that suits and then study to find some way of eliminating the
entirely useless parts. This applies to everything—a shoe, a dress, a house, a piece of machinery, a
railroad, a steamship, an airplane. As we cut out useless parts and simplify necessary ones we also cut
down the cost of making. This is simple logic, but oddly enough the ordinary process starts with a
cheapening of the manufacturing instead of with a simplifying of the article. The start ought to be with
the article. First we ought to find whether it is as well made as it should be—does it give the best
possible service? Then—are the materials the best or merely the most expensive? Then—can its
complexity and weight be cut down? And so on.
There is no more sense in having extra weight in an article than there is in the cockade on a
coachman's hat. In fact, there is not as much. For the cockade may help the coachman to identify his
hat while the extra weight means only a waste of strength. I cannot imagine where the delusion that
weight means strength came from. It is all well enough in a pile-driver, but why move a heavy weight
if we are not going to hit anything with it? In transportation why put extra weight in a machine? Why
not add it to the load that the machine is designed to carry? Fat men cannot run as fast as thin men but
we build most of our vehicles as though dead-weight fat increased speed! A deal of poverty grows out
of the carriage of excess weight. Some day we shall discover how further to eliminate weight. Take
wood, for example. For certain purposes wood is now the best substance we know, but wood is
extremely wasteful. The wood in a Ford car contains thirty pounds of water. There must be some way
of doing better than that. There must be some method by which we can gain the same strength and
elasticity without having to lug useless weight. And so through a thousand processes.
The farmer makes too complex an affair out of his daily work. I believe that the average farmer puts to
a really useful purpose only about 5 per cent of the energy that he spends. If any one ever equipped a
factory in the style, say, the average farm is fitted out, the place would be cluttered with men. The
worst factory in Europe is hardly as bad as the average farm barn. Power is utilized to the least
possible degree. Not only is everything done by hand, but seldom is a thought given to logical
arrangement. A farmer doing his chores will walk up and down a rickety ladder a dozen times. He will
carry water for years instead of putting in a few lengths of pipe. His whole idea, when there is extra
work to do, is to hire extra men. He thinks of putting money into improvements as an expense. Farm
products at their lowest prices are dearer than they ought to be. Farm profits at their highest are lower
than they ought to be. It is waste motion—waste effort—that makes farm prices high and profits low.
On my own farm at Dearborn we do everything by machinery. We have eliminated a great number of

wastes, but we have not as yet touched on real economy. We have not yet been able to put in five or
ten years of intense night-and-day study to discover what really ought to be done. We have left more
undone than we have done. Yet at no time—no matter what the value of crops—have we failed to turn
a first-class profit. We are not farmers—we are industrialists on the farm. The moment the farmer
considers himself as an industrialist, with a horror of waste either in material or in men, then we are
going to have farm products so low-priced that all will have enough to eat, and the profits will be so
satisfactory that farming will be considered as among the least hazardous and most profitable of
occupations.
Lack of knowledge of what is going on and lack of knowledge of what the job really is and the best
way of doing it are the reasons why farming is thought not to pay. Nothing could pay the way farming
is conducted. The farmer follows luck and his forefathers. He does not know how economically to
produce, and he does not know how to market. A manufacturer who knew how neither to produce nor
to market would not long stay in business. That the farmer can stay on shows how wonderfully
profitable farming can be.
The way to attain low-priced, high-volume production in the factory or on the farm—and low-priced,
high-volume production means plenty for everyone—is quite simple. The trouble is that the general
tendency is to complicate very simple affairs. Take, for an instance, an "improvement."
When we talk about improvements usually we have in mind some change in a product. An "improved"
product is one that has been changed. That is not my idea. I do not believe in starting to make until I
have discovered the best possible thing. This, of course, does not mean that a product should never be
changed, but I think that it will be found more economical in the end not even to try to produce an
article until you have fully satisfied yourself that utility, design, and material are the best. If your
researches do not give you that confidence, then keep right on searching until you find confidence. The
place to start manufacturing is with the article. The factory, the organization, the selling, and the
financial plans will shape themselves to the article. You will have a cutting, edge on your business
chisel and in the end you will save time. Rushing into manufacturing without being certain of the
product is the unrecognized cause of many business failures. People seem to think that the big thing is
the factory or the store or the financial backing or the management. The big thing is the product, and
any hurry in getting into fabrication before designs are completed is just so much waste time. I spent
twelve years before I had a Model T—which is what is known to-day as the Ford car—that suited me.
We did not attempt to go into real production until we had a real product. That product has not been
essentially changed.
We are constantly experimenting with new ideas. If you travel the roads in the neighbourhood of
Dearborn you can find all sorts of models of Ford cars. They are experimental cars—they are not new
models. I do not believe in letting any good idea get by me, but I will not quickly decide whether an
idea is good or bad. If an idea seems good or seems even to have possibilities, I believe in doing
whatever is necessary to test out the idea from every angle. But testing out the idea is something very
different from making a change in the car. Where most manufacturers find themselves quicker to make
a change in the product than in the method of manufacturing—we follow exactly the opposite course.
Our big changes have been in methods of manufacturing. They never stand still. I believe that there is
hardly a single operation in the making of our car that is the same as when we made our first car of the
present model. That is why we make them so cheaply. The few changes that have been made in the car
have been in the direction of convenience in use or where we found that a change in design might give
added strength. The materials in the car change as we learn more and more about materials. Also we
do not want to be held up in production or have the expense of production increased by any possible
shortage in a particular material, so we have for most parts worked out substitute materials. Vanadium
steel, for instance, is our principal steel. With it we can get the greatest strength with the least weight,
but it would not be good business to let our whole future depend upon being able to get vanadium
steel. We have worked out a substitute. All our steels are special, but for every one of them we have at
least one, and sometimes several, fully proved and tested substitutes. And so on through all of our
materials and likewise with our parts. In the beginning we made very few of our parts and none of our
motors. Now we make all our motors and most of our parts because we find it cheaper to do so. But
also we aim to make some of every part so that we cannot be caught in any market emergency or be
crippled by some outside manufacturer being unable to fill his orders. The prices on glass were run up
outrageously high during the war; we are among the largest users of glass in the country. Now we are
putting up our own glass factory. If we had devoted all of this energy to making changes in the product
we should be nowhere; but by not changing the product we are able to give our energy to the
improvement of the making.
The principal part of a chisel is the cutting edge. If there is a single principle on which our business
rests it is that. It makes no difference how finely made a chisel is or what splendid steel it has in it or
how well it is forged—if it has no cutting edge it is not a chisel. It is just a piece of metal. All of which
being translated means that it is what a thing does—not what it is supposed to do—that matters. What
is the use of putting a tremendous force behind a blunt chisel if a light blow on a sharp chisel will do
the work? The chisel is there to cut, not to be hammered. The hammering is only incidental to the job.
So if we want to work why not concentrate on the work and do it in the quickest possible fashion? The
cutting edge of merchandising is the point where the product touches the consumer. An unsatisfactory
product is one that has a dull cutting edge. A lot of waste effort is needed to put it through. The cutting
edge of a factory is the man and the machine on the job. If the man is not right the machine cannot be;
if the machine is not right the man cannot be. For any one to be required to use more force than is
absolutely necessary for the job in hand is waste.
The essence of my idea then is that waste and greed block the delivery of true service. Both waste and
greed are unnecessary. Waste is due largely to not understanding what one does, or being careless in
doing of it. Greed is merely a species of nearsightedness. I have striven toward manufacturing with a
minimum of waste, both of materials and of human effort, and then toward distribution at a minimum
of profit, depending for the total profit upon the volume of distribution. In the process of
manufacturing I want to distribute the maximum of wage—that is, the maximum of buying power.
Since also this makes for a minimum cost and we sell at a minimum profit, we can distribute a product
in consonance with buying power. Thus everyone who is connected with us—either as a manager,
worker, or purchaser—is the better for our existence. The institution that we have erected is
performing a service. That is the only reason I have for talking about it. The principles of that service
are these:
1. An absence of fear of the future and of veneration for the past. One who fears the future, who fears
failure, limits his activities. Failure is only the opportunity more intelligently to begin again. There is
no disgrace in honest failure; there is disgrace in fearing to fail. What is past is useful only as it
suggests ways and means for progress.
2. A disregard of competition. Whoever does a thing best ought to be the one to do it. It is criminal to
try to get business away from another man—criminal because one is then trying to lower for personal
gain the condition of one's fellow man—to rule by force instead of by intelligence.
3. The putting of service before profit. Without a profit, business cannot extend. There is nothing
inherently wrong about making a profit. Well-conducted business enterprise cannot fail to return a
profit, but profit must and inevitably will come as a reward for good service. It cannot be the basis—it
must be the result of service.
4. Manufacturing is not buying low and selling high. It is the process of buying materials fairly and,
with the smallest possible addition of cost, transforming those materials into a consumable product and
giving it to the consumer. Gambling, speculating, and sharp dealing, tend only to clog this progression.
How all of this arose, how it has worked out, and how it applies generally are the subjects of these
chapters.
CHAPTER I
THE BEGINNING OF BUSINESS
On May 31, 1921, the Ford Motor Company turned out Car No. 5,000,000. It is out in my museum
along with the gasoline buggy that I began work on thirty years before and which first ran
satisfactorily along in the spring of 1893. I was running it when the bobolinks came to Dearborn and
they always come on April 2nd. There is all the difference in the world in the appearance of the two
vehicles and almost as much difference in construction and materials, but in fundamentals the two are
curiously alike—except that the old buggy has on it a few wrinkles that we have not yet quite adopted
in our modern car. For that first car or buggy, even though it had but two cylinders, would make
twenty miles an hour and run sixty miles on the three gallons of gas the little tank held and is as good
to-day as the day it was built. The development in methods of manufacture and in materials has been
greater than the development in basic design. The whole design has been refined; the present Ford car,
which is the "Model T," has four cylinders and a self starter—it is in every way a more convenient and
an easier riding car. It is simpler than the first car. But almost every point in it may be found also in the
first car. The changes have been brought about through experience in the making and not through any
change in the basic principle—which I take to be an important fact demonstrating that, given a good
idea to start with, it is better to concentrate on perfecting it than to hunt around for a new idea. One
idea at a time is about as much as any one can handle.
It was life on the farm that drove me into devising ways and means to better transportation. I was born
on July 30, 1863, on a farm at Dearborn, Michigan, and my earliest recollection is that, considering the
results, there was too much work on the place. That is the way I still feel about farming. There is a
legend that my parents were very poor and that the early days were hard ones. Certainly they were not
rich, but neither were they poor. As Michigan farmers went, we were prosperous. The house in which I
was born is still standing, and it and the farm are part of my present holding.
There was too much hard hand labour on our own and all other farms of the time. Even when very
young I suspected that much might somehow be done in a better way. That is what took me into
mechanics—although my mother always said that I was born a mechanic. I had a kind of workshop
with odds and ends of metal for tools before I had anything else. In those days we did not have the toys
of to-day; what we had were home made. My toys were all tools—they still are! And every fragment
of machinery was a treasure.
The biggest event of those early years was meeting with a road engine about eight miles out of Detroit
one day when we were driving to town. I was then twelve years old. The second biggest event was
getting a watch—which happened in the same year. I remember that engine as though I had seen it
only yesterday, for it was the first vehicle other than horse-drawn that I had ever seen. It was intended
primarily for driving threshing machines and sawmills and was simply a portable engine and boiler
mounted on wheels with a water tank and coal cart trailing behind. I had seen plenty of these engines
hauled around by horses, but this one had a chain that made a connection between the engine and the
rear wheels of the wagon-like frame on which the boiler was mounted. The engine was placed over the
boiler and one man standing on the platform behind the boiler shoveled coal, managed the throttle, and
did the steering. It had been made by Nichols, Shepard & Company of Battle Creek. I found that out at
once. The engine had stopped to let us pass with our horses and I was off the wagon and talking to the
engineer before my father, who was driving, knew what I was up to. The engineer was very glad to
explain the whole affair. He was proud of it. He showed me how the chain was disconnected from the
propelling wheel and a belt put on to drive other machinery. He told me that the engine made two
hundred revolutions a minute and that the chain pinion could be shifted to let the wagon stop while the
engine was still running. This last is a feature which, although in different fashion, is incorporated into
modern automobiles. It was not important with steam engines, which are easily stopped and started,
but it became very important with the gasoline engine. It was that engine which took me into
automotive transportation. I tried to make models of it, and some years later I did make one that ran
very well, but from the time I saw that road engine as a boy of twelve right forward to to-day, my great
interest has been in making a machine that would travel the roads. Driving to town I always had a
pocket full of trinkets—nuts, washers, and odds and ends of machinery. Often I took a broken watch
and tried to put it together. When I was thirteen I managed for the first time to put a watch together so
that it would keep time. By the time I was fifteen I could do almost anything in watch repairing—
although my tools were of the crudest. There is an immense amount to be learned simply by tinkering
with things. It is not possible to learn from books how everything is made—and a real mechanic ought
to know how nearly everything is made. Machines are to a mechanic what books are to a writer. He
gets ideas from them, and if he has any brains he will apply those ideas.
From the beginning I never could work up much interest in the labour of farming. I wanted to have
something to do with machinery. My father was not entirely in sympathy with my bent toward
mechanics. He thought that I ought to be a farmer. When I left school at seventeen and became an
apprentice in the machine shop of the Drydock Engine Works I was all but given up for lost. I passed
my apprenticeship without trouble—that is, I was qualified to be a machinist long before my three-year
term had expired—and having a liking for fine work and a leaning toward watches I worked nights at
repairing in a jewelry shop. At one period of those early days I think that I must have had fully three
hundred watches. I thought that I could build a serviceable watch for around thirty cents and nearly
started in the business. But I did not because I figured out that watches were not universal necessities,
and therefore people generally would not buy them. Just how I reached that surprising conclusion I am
unable to state. I did not like the ordinary jewelry and watch making work excepting where the job was
hard to do. Even then I wanted to make something in quantity. It was just about the time when the
standard railroad time was being arranged. We had formerly been on sun time and for quite a while,
just as in our present daylight-saving days, the railroad time differed from the local time. That bothered
me a good deal and so I succeeded in making a watch that kept both times. It had two dials and it was
quite a curiosity in the neighbourhood.
In 1879—that is, about four years after I first saw that Nichols-Shepard machine—I managed to get a
chance to run one and when my apprenticeship was over I worked with a local representative of the
Westinghouse Company of Schenectady as an expert in the setting up and repair of their road engines.
The engine they put out was much the same as the Nichols-Shepard engine excepting that the engine
was up in front, the boiler in the rear, and the power was applied to the back wheels by a belt. They
could make twelve miles an hour on the road even though the self-propelling feature was only an
incident of the construction. They were sometimes used as tractors to pull heavy loads and, if the
owner also happened to be in the threshing-machine business, he hitched his threshing machine and
other paraphernalia to the engine in moving from farm to farm. What bothered me was the weight and
the cost. They weighed a couple of tons and were far too expensive to be owned by other than a farmer
with a great deal of land. They were mostly employed by people who went into threshing as a business
or who had sawmills or some other line that required portable power.
Even before that time I had the idea of making some kind of a light steam car that would take the place
of horses—more especially, however, as a tractor to attend to the excessively hard labour of ploughing.
It occurred to me, as I remember somewhat vaguely, that precisely the same idea might be applied to a
carriage or a wagon on the road. A horseless carriage was a common idea. People had been talking
about carriages without horses for many years back—in fact, ever since the steam engine was invented
—but the idea of the carriage at first did not seem so practical to me as the idea of an engine to do the
harder farm work, and of all the work on the farm ploughing was the hardest. Our roads were poor and
we had not the habit of getting around. One of the most remarkable features of the automobile on the
farm is the way that it has broadened the farmer's life. We simply took for granted that unless the
errand were urgent we would not go to town, and I think we rarely made more than a trip a week. In
bad weather we did not go even that often.
Being a full-fledged machinist and with a very fair workshop on the farm it was not difficult for me to
build a steam wagon or tractor. In the building of it came the idea that perhaps it might be made for
road use. I felt perfectly certain that horses, considering all the bother of attending them and the
expense of feeding, did not earn their keep. The obvious thing to do was to design and build a steam
engine that would be light enough to run an ordinary wagon or to pull a plough. I thought it more
important first to develop the tractor. To lift farm drudgery off flesh and blood and lay it on steel and
motors has been my most constant ambition. It was circumstances that took me first into the actual
manufacture of road cars. I found eventually that people were more interested in something that would
travel on the road than in something that would do the work on the farms. In fact, I doubt that the light
farm tractor could have been introduced on the farm had not the farmer had his eyes opened slowly but
surely by the automobile. But that is getting ahead of the story. I thought the farmer would be more
interested in the tractor.
I built a steam car that ran. It had a kerosene-heated boiler and it developed plenty of power and a neat
control—which is so easy with a steam throttle. But the boiler was dangerous. To get the requisite
power without too big and heavy a power plant required that the engine work under high pressure;
sitting on a high-pressure steam boiler is not altogether pleasant. To make it even reasonably safe
required an excess of weight that nullified the economy of the high pressure. For two years I kept
experimenting with various sorts of boilers—the engine and control problems were simple enough—
and then I definitely abandoned the whole idea of running a road vehicle by steam. I knew that in
England they had what amounted to locomotives running on the roads hauling lines of trailers and also
there was no difficulty in designing a big steam tractor for use on a large farm. But ours were not then
English roads; they would have stalled or racked to pieces the strongest and heaviest road tractor. And
anyway the manufacturing of a big tractor which only a few wealthy farmers could buy did not seem to
me worth while.
But I did not give up the idea of a horseless carriage. The work with the Westinghouse representative
only served to confirm the opinion I had formed that steam was not suitable for light vehicles. That is
why I stayed only a year with that company. There was nothing more that the big steam tractors and
engines could teach me and I did not want to waste time on something that would lead nowhere. A few
years before—it was while I was an apprentice—I read in the World of Science, an English
publication, of the "silent gas engine" which was then coming out in England. I think it was the Otto
engine. It ran with illuminating gas, had a single large cylinder, and the power impulses being thus
intermittent required an extremely heavy fly-wheel. As far as weight was concerned it gave nothing
like the power per pound of metal that a steam engine gave, and the use of illuminating gas seemed to
dismiss it as even a possibility for road use. It was interesting to me only as all machinery was
interesting. I followed in the English and American magazines which we got in the shop the
development of the engine and most particularly the hints of the possible replacement of the
illuminating gas fuel by a gas formed by the vaporization of gasoline. The idea of gas engines was by
no means new, but this was the first time that a really serious effort had been made to put them on the
market. They were received with interest rather than enthusiasm and I do not recall any one who
thought that the internal combustion engine could ever have more than a limited use. All the wise
people demonstrated conclusively that the engine could not compete with steam. They never thought
that it might carve out a career for itself. That is the way with wise people—they are so wise and
practical that they always know to a dot just why something cannot be done; they always know the
limitations. That is why I never employ an expert in full bloom. If ever I wanted to kill opposition by
unfair means I would endow the opposition with experts. They would have so much good advice that I
could be sure they would do little work.
The gas engine interested me and I followed its progress, but only from curiosity, until about 1885 or
1886 when, the steam engine being discarded as the motive power for the carriage that I intended some
day to build, I had to look around for another sort of motive power. In 1885 I repaired an Otto engine
at the Eagle Iron Works in Detroit. No one in town knew anything about them. There was a rumour
that I did and, although I had never before been in contact with one, I undertook and carried through
the job. That gave me a chance to study the new engine at first hand and in 1887 I built one on the Otto
four-cycle model just to see if I understood the principles. "Four cycle" means that the piston traverses
the cylinder four times to get one power impulse. The first stroke draws in the gas, the second
compresses it, the third is the explosion or power stroke, while the fourth stroke exhausts the waste
gas. The little model worked well enough; it had a one-inch bore and a three-inch stroke, operated with
gasoline, and while it did not develop much power, it was slightly lighter in proportion than the
engines being offered commercially. I gave it away later to a young man who wanted it for something
or other and whose name I have forgotten; it was eventually destroyed. That was the beginning of the
work with the internal combustion engine.
I was then on the farm to which I had returned, more because I wanted to experiment than because I
wanted to farm, and, now being an all-around machinist, I had a first-class workshop to replace the toy
shop of earlier days. My father offered me forty acres of timber land, provided I gave up being a
machinist. I agreed in a provisional way, for cutting the timber gave me a chance to get married. I
fitted out a sawmill and a portable engine and started to cut out and saw up the timber on the tract.
Some of the first of that lumber went into a cottage on my new farm and in it we began our married
life. It was not a big house—thirty-one feet square and only a story and a half high—but it was a
comfortable place. I added to it my workshop, and when I was not cutting timber I was working on the
gas engines—learning what they were and how they acted. I read everything I could find, but the
greatest knowledge came from the work. A gas engine is a mysterious sort of thing—it will not always
go the way it should. You can imagine how those first engines acted!
It was in 1890 that I began on a double-cylinder engine. It was quite impractical to consider the single
cylinder for transportation purposes—the fly-wheel had to be entirely too heavy. Between making the
first four-cycle engine of the Otto type and the start on a double cylinder I had made a great many
experimental engines out of tubing. I fairly knew my way about. The double cylinder I thought could
be applied to a road vehicle and my original idea was to put it on a bicycle with a direct connection to
the crankshaft and allowing for the rear wheel of the bicycle to act as the balance wheel. The speed
was going to be varied only by the throttle. I never carried out this plan because it soon became
apparent that the engine, gasoline tank, and the various necessary controls would be entirely too heavy
for a bicycle. The plan of the two opposed cylinders was that, while one would be delivering power the
other would be exhausting. This naturally would not require so heavy a fly-wheel to even the
application of power. The work started in my shop on the farm. Then I was offered a job with the
Detroit Electric Company as an engineer and machinist at forty-five dollars a month. I took it because
that was more money than the farm was bringing me and I had decided to get away from farm life
anyway. The timber had all been cut. We rented a house on Bagley Avenue, Detroit. The workshop
came along and I set it up in a brick shed at the back of the house. During the first several months I
was in the night shift at the electric-light plant—which gave me very little time for experimenting—
but after that I was in the day shift and every night and all of every Saturday night I worked on the new
motor. I cannot say that it was hard work. No work with interest is ever hard. I always am certain of
results. They always come if you work hard enough. But it was a very great thing to have my wife
even more confident than I was. She has always been that way.
I had to work from the ground up—that is, although I knew that a number of people were working on
horseless carriages, I could not know what they were doing. The hardest problems to overcome were in
the making and breaking of the spark and in the avoidance of excess weight. For the transmission, the
steering gear, and the general construction, I could draw on my experience with the steam tractors. In
1892 I completed my first motor car, but it was not until the spring of the following year that it ran to
my satisfaction. This first car had something of the appearance of a buggy. There were two cylinders
with a two-and-a-half-inch bore and a six-inch stroke set side by side and over the rear axle. I made
them out of the exhaust pipe of a steam engine that I had bought. They developed about four
horsepower. The power was transmitted from the motor to the countershaft by a belt and from the
countershaft to the rear wheel by a chain. The car would hold two people, the seat being suspended on
posts and the body on elliptical springs. There were two speeds—one of ten and the other of twenty
miles per hour—obtained by shifting the belt, which was done by a clutch lever in front of the driving
seat. Thrown forward, the lever put in the high speed; thrown back, the low speed; with the lever
upright the engine could run free. To start the car it was necessary to turn the motor over by hand with
the clutch free. To stop the car one simply released the clutch and applied the foot brake. There was no
reverse, and speeds other than those of the belt were obtained by the throttle. I bought the iron work
for the frame of the carriage and also the seat and the springs. The wheels were twenty-eight-inch wire
bicycle wheels with rubber tires. The balance wheel I had cast from a pattern that I made and all of the
more delicate mechanism I made myself. One of the features that I discovered necessary was a
compensating gear that permitted the same power to be applied to each of the rear wheels when
turning corners. The machine altogether weighed about five hundred pounds. A tank under the seat
held three gallons of gasoline which was fed to the motor through a small pipe and a mixing valve. The
ignition was by electric spark. The original machine was air-cooled—or to be more accurate, the motor
simply was not cooled at all. I found that on a run of an hour or more the motor heated up, and so I
very shortly put a water jacket around the cylinders and piped it to a tank in the rear of the car over the
cylinders. Nearly all of these various features had been planned in advance. That is the way I have
always worked. I draw a plan and work out every detail on the plan before starting to build. For
otherwise one will waste a great deal of time in makeshifts as the work goes on and the finished article
will not have coherence. It will not be rightly proportioned. Many inventors fail because they do not
distinguish between planning and experimenting. The largest building difficulties that I had were in
obtaining the proper materials. The next were with tools. There had to be some adjustments and
changes in details of the design, but what held me up most was that I had neither the time nor the
money to search for the best material for each part. But in the spring of 1893 the machine was running
to my partial satisfaction and giving an opportunity further to test out the design and material on the
road.
CHAPTER II
WHAT I LEARNED ABOUT BUSINESS
My "gasoline buggy" was the first and for a long time the only automobile in Detroit. It was
considered to be something of a nuisance, for it made a racket and it scared horses. Also it blocked
traffic. For if I stopped my machine anywhere in town a crowd was around it before I could start up
again. If I left it alone even for a minute some inquisitive person always tried to run it. Finally, I had to
carry a chain and chain it to a lamp post whenever I left it anywhere. And then there was trouble with
the police. I do not know quite why, for my impression is that there were no speed-limit laws in those
days. Anyway, I had to get a special permit from the mayor and thus for a time enjoyed the distinction
of being the only licensed chauffeur in America. I ran that machine about one thousand miles through
1895 and 1896 and then sold it to Charles Ainsley of Detroit for two hundred dollars. That was my
first sale. I had built the car not to sell but only to experiment with. I wanted to start another car.
Ainsley wanted to buy. I could use the money and we had no trouble in agreeing upon a price.
It was not at all my idea to make cars in any such petty fashion. I was looking ahead to production, but
before that could come I had to have something to produce. It does not pay to hurry. I started a second
car in 1896; it was much like the first but a little lighter. It also had the belt drive which I did not give
up until some time later; the belts were all right excepting in hot weather. That is why I later adopted
gears. I learned a great deal from that car. Others in this country and abroad were building cars by that
time, and in 1895 I heard that a Benz car from Germany was on exhibition in Macy's store in New
York. I traveled down to look at it but it had no features that seemed worth while. It also had the belt
drive, but it was much heavier than my car. I was working for lightness; the foreign makers have never
seemed to appreciate what light weight means. I built three cars in all in my home shop and all of them
ran for years in Detroit. I still have the first car; I bought it back a few years later from a man to whom
Mr. Ainsley had sold it. I paid one hundred dollars for it.
During all this time I kept my position with the electric company and gradually advanced to chief
engineer at a salary of one hundred and twenty-five dollars a month. But my gas-engine experiments
were no more popular with the president of the company than my first mechanical leanings were with
my father. It was not that my employer objected to experiments—only to experiments with a gas
engine. I can still hear him say: "Electricity, yes, that's the coming thing. But gas—no."
He had ample grounds for his skepticism—to use the mildest terms. Practically no one had the
remotest notion of the future of the internal combustion engine, while we were just on the edge of the
great electrical development. As with every comparatively new idea, electricity was expected to do
much more than we even now have any indication that it can do. I did not see the use of experimenting
with electricity for my purposes. A road car could not run on a trolley even if trolley wires had been
less expensive; no storage battery was in sight of a weight that was practical. An electrical car had of
necessity to be limited in radius and to contain a large amount of motive machinery in proportion to
the power exerted. That is not to say that I held or now hold electricity cheaply; we have not yet begun
to use electricity. But it has its place, and the internal combustion engine has its place. Neither can
substitute for the other—which is exceedingly fortunate.
I have the dynamo that I first had charge of at the Detroit Edison Company. When I started our
Canadian plant I bought it from an office building to which it had been sold by the electric company,
had it revamped a little, and for several years it gave excellent service in the Canadian plant. When we
had to build a new power plant, owing to the increase in business, I had the old motor taken out to my
museum—a room out at Dearborn that holds a great number of my mechanical treasures.
The Edison Company offered me the general superintendency of the company but only on condition
that I would give up my gas engine and devote myself to something really useful. I had to choose
between my job and my automobile. I chose the automobile, or rather I gave up the job—there was
really nothing in the way of a choice. For already I knew that the car was bound to be a success. I quit
my job on August 15, 1899, and went into the automobile business.
It might be thought something of a step, for I had no personal funds. What money was left over from
living was all used in experimenting. But my wife agreed that the automobile could not be given up—
that we had to make or break. There was no "demand" for automobiles—there never is for a new
article. They were accepted in much the fashion as was more recently the airplane. At first the
"horseless carriage" was considered merely a freak notion and many wise people explained with
particularity why it could never be more than a toy. No man of money even thought of it as a
commercial possibility. I cannot imagine why each new means of transportation meets with such
opposition. There are even those to-day who shake their heads and talk about the luxury of the
automobile and only grudgingly admit that perhaps the motor truck is of some use. But in the
beginning there was hardly any one who sensed that the automobile could be a large factor in industry.
The most optimistic hoped only for a development akin to that of the bicycle. When it was found that
an automobile really could go and several makers started to put out cars, the immediate query was as
to which would go fastest. It was a curious but natural development—that racing idea. I never thought
anything of racing, but the public refused to consider the automobile in any light other than as a fast
toy. Therefore later we had to race. The industry was held back by this initial racing slant, for the
attention of the makers was diverted to making fast rather than good cars. It was a business for
speculators.
A group of men of speculative turn of mind organized, as soon as I left the electric company, the
Detroit Automobile Company to exploit my car. I was the chief engineer and held a small amount of
the stock. For three years we continued making cars more or less on the model of my first car. We sold
very few of them; I could get no support at all toward making better cars to be sold to the public at
large. The whole thought was to make to order and to get the largest price possible for each car. The
main idea seemed to be to get the money. And being without authority other than my engineering
position gave me, I found that the new company was not a vehicle for realizing my ideas but merely a
money-making concern—that did not make much money. In March, 1902, I resigned, determined
never again to put myself under orders. The Detroit Automobile Company later became the Cadillac
Company under the ownership of the Lelands, who came in subsequently.
I rented a shop—a one-story brick shed—at 81 Park Place to continue my experiments and to find out
what business really was. I thought that it must be something different from what it had proved to be in
my first adventure.
The year from 1902 until the formation of the Ford Motor Company was practically one of
investigation. In my little one-room brick shop I worked on the development of a four-cylinder motor
and on the outside I tried to find out what business really was and whether it needed to be quite so
selfish a scramble for money as it seemed to be from my first short experience. From the period of the
first car, which I have described, until the formation of my present company I built in all about twenty-
five cars, of which nineteen or twenty were built with the Detroit Automobile Company. The
automobile had passed from the initial stage where the fact that it could run at all was enough, to the
stage where it had to show speed. Alexander Winton of Cleveland, the founder of the Winton car, was
then the track champion of the country and willing to meet all comers. I designed a two-cylinder
enclosed engine of a more compact type than I had before used, fitted it into a skeleton chassis, found
that I could make speed, and arranged a race with Winton. We met on the Grosse Point track at
Detroit. I beat him. That was my first race, and it brought advertising of the only kind that people cared
to read. The public thought nothing of a car unless it made speed—unless it beat other racing cars. My
ambition to build the fastest car in the world led me to plan a four-cylinder motor. But of that more
later.
The most surprising feature of business as it was conducted was the large attention given to finance
and the small attention to service. That seemed to me to be reversing the natural process which is that
the money should come as the result of work and not before the work. The second feature was the
general indifference to better methods of manufacture as long as whatever was done got by and took
the money. In other words, an article apparently was not built with reference to how greatly it could
serve the public but with reference solely to how much money could be had for it—and that without
any particular care whether the customer was satisfied. To sell him was enough. A dissatisfied
customer was regarded not as a man whose trust had been violated, but either as a nuisance or as a
possible source of more money in fixing up the work which ought to have been done correctly in the
first place. For instance, in automobiles there was not much concern as to what happened to the car
once it had been sold. How much gasoline it used per mile was of no great moment; how much service
it actually gave did not matter; and if it broke down and had to have parts replaced, then that was just
hard luck for the owner. It was considered good business to sell parts at the highest possible price on
the theory that, since the man had already bought the car, he simply had to have the part and would be
willing to pay for it.
The automobile business was not on what I would call an honest basis, to say nothing of being, from a
manufacturing standpoint, on a scientific basis, but it was no worse than business in general. That was
the period, it may be remembered, in which many corporations were being floated and financed. The
bankers, who before then had confined themselves to the railroads, got into industry. My idea was then
and still is that if a man did his work well, the price he would get for that work, the profits and all
financial matters, would care for themselves and that a business ought to start small and build itself up
and out of its earnings. If there are no earnings then that is a signal to the owner that he is wasting his
time and does not belong in that business. I have never found it necessary to change those ideas, but I
discovered that this simple formula of doing good work and getting paid for it was supposed to be slow
for modern business. The plan at that time most in favor was to start off with the largest possible
capitalization and then sell all the stock and all the bonds that could be sold. Whatever money
happened to be left over after all the stock and bond-selling expenses and promoters, charges and all
that, went grudgingly into the foundation of the business. A good business was not one that did good
work and earned a fair profit. A good business was one that would give the opportunity for the floating
of a large amount of stocks and bonds at high prices. It was the stocks and bonds, not the work, that
mattered. I could not see how a new business or an old business could be expected to be able to charge
into its product a great big bond interest and then sell the product at a fair price. I have never been able
to see that.
I have never been able to understand on what theory the original investment of money can be charged
against a business. Those men in business who call themselves financiers say that money is "worth" 6
per cent, or 5 per cent, or some other per cent, and that if a business has one hundred thousand dollars
invested in it, the man who made the investment is entitled to charge an interest payment on the
money, because, if instead of putting that money into the business he had put it into a savings bank or
into certain securities, he could have a certain fixed return. Therefore they say that a proper charge
against the operating expenses of a business is the interest on this money. This idea is at the root of
many business failures and most service failures. Money is not worth a particular amount. As money it
is not worth anything, for it will do nothing of itself. The only use of money is to buy tools to work
with or the product of tools. Therefore money is worth what it will help you to produce or buy and no
more. If a man thinks that his money will earn 5 per cent, or 6 per cent, he ought to place it where he
can get that return, but money placed in a business is not a charge on the business—or, rather, should
not be. It ceases to be money and becomes, or should become, an engine of production, and it is
therefore worth what it produces—and not a fixed sum according to some scale that has no bearing
upon the particular business in which the money has been placed. Any return should come after it has
produced, not before.
Business men believed that you could do anything by "financing" it. If it did not go through on the first
financing then the idea was to "refinance." The process of "refinancing" was simply the game of
sending good money after bad. In the majority of cases the need of refinancing arises from bad
management, and the effect of refinancing is simply to pay the poor managers to keep up their bad
management a little longer. It is merely a postponement of the day of judgment. This makeshift of
refinancing is a device of speculative financiers. Their money is no good to them unless they can
connect it up with a place where real work is being done, and that they cannot do unless, somehow,
that place is poorly managed. Thus, the speculative financiers delude themselves that they are putting
their money out to use. They are not; they are putting it out to waste.
I determined absolutely that never would I join a company in which finance came before the work or
in which bankers or financiers had a part. And further that, if there were no way to get started in the
kind of business that I thought could be managed in the interest of the public, then I simply would not
get started at all. For my own short experience, together with what I saw going on around me, was
quite enough proof that business as a mere money-making game was not worth giving much thought to
and was distinctly no place for a man who wanted to accomplish anything. Also it did not seem to me
to be the way to make money. I have yet to have it demonstrated that it is the way. For the only
foundation of real business is service.
A manufacturer is not through with his customer when a sale is completed. He has then only started
with his customer. In the case of an automobile the sale of the machine is only something in the nature
of an introduction. If the machine does not give service, then it is better for the manufacturer if he
never had the introduction, for he will have the worst of all advertisements—a dissatisfied customer.
There was something more than a tendency in the early days of the automobile to regard the selling of
a machine as the real accomplishment and that thereafter it did not matter what happened to the buyer.
That is the shortsighted salesman-on-commission attitude. If a salesman is paid only for what he sells,
it is not to be expected that he is going to exert any great effort on a customer out of whom no more
commission is to be made. And it is right on this point that we later made the largest selling argument
for the Ford. The price and the quality of the car would undoubtedly have made a market, and a large
market. We went beyond that. A man who bought one of our cars was in my opinion entitled to
continuous use of that car, and therefore if he had a breakdown of any kind it was our duty to see that
his machine was put into shape again at the earliest possible moment. In the success of the Ford car the
early provision of service was an outstanding element. Most of the expensive cars of that period were
ill provided with service stations. If your car broke down you had to depend on the local repair man—
when you were entitled to depend upon the manufacturer. If the local repair man were a forehanded
sort of a person, keeping on hand a good stock of parts (although on many of the cars the parts were
not interchangeable), the owner was lucky. But if the repair man were a shiftless person, with an
adequate knowledge of automobiles and an inordinate desire to make a good thing out of every car that
came into his place for repairs, then even a slight breakdown meant weeks of laying up and a
whopping big repair bill that had to be paid before the car could be taken away. The repair men were
for a time the largest menace to the automobile industry. Even as late as 1910 and 1911 the owner of
an automobile was regarded as essentially a rich man whose money ought to be taken away from him.
We met that situation squarely and at the very beginning. We would not have our distribution blocked
by stupid, greedy men.
That is getting some years ahead of the story, but it is control by finance that breaks up service because
it looks to the immediate dollar. If the first consideration is to earn a certain amount of money, then,
unless by some stroke of luck matters are going especially well and there is a surplus over for service
so that the operating men may have a chance, future business has to be sacrificed for the dollar of to-
day.
And also I noticed a tendency among many men in business to feel that their lot was hard—they
worked against a day when they might retire and live on an income—get out of the strife. Life to them
was a battle to be ended as soon as possible. That was another point I could not understand, for as I
reasoned, life is not a battle except with our own tendency to sag with the downpull of "getting
settled." If to petrify is success all one has to do is to humour the lazy side of the mind but if to grow is
success, then one must wake up anew every morning and keep awake all day. I saw great businesses
become but the ghost of a name because someone thought they could be managed just as they were
always managed, and though the management may have been most excellent in its day, its excellence
consisted in its alertness to its day, and not in slavish following of its yesterdays. Life, as I see it, is not
a location, but a journey. Even the man who most feels himself "settled" is not settled—he is probably
sagging back. Everything is in flux, and was meant to be. Life flows. We may live at the same number
of the street, but it is never the same man who lives there.
And out of the delusion that life is a battle that may be lost by a false move grows, I have noticed, a
great love for regularity. Men fall into the half-alive habit. Seldom does the cobbler take up with the
new-fangled way of soling shoes, and seldom does the artisan willingly take up with new methods in
his trade. Habit conduces to a certain inertia, and any disturbance of it affects the mind like trouble. It
will be recalled that when a study was made of shop methods, so that the workmen might be taught to
produce with less useless motion and fatigue, it was most opposed by the workmen themselves.
Though they suspected that it was simply a game to get more out of them, what most irked them was
that it interfered with the well-worn grooves in which they had become accustomed to move. Business
men go down with their businesses because they like the old way so well they cannot bring themselves
to change. One sees them all about—men who do not know that yesterday is past, and who woke up
this morning with their last year's ideas. It could almost be written down as a formula that when a man
begins to think that he has at last found his method he had better begin a most searching examination
of himself to see whether some part of his brain has not gone to sleep. There is a subtle danger in a
man thinking that he is "fixed" for life. It indicates that the next jolt of the wheel of progress is going
to fling him off.
There is also the great fear of being thought a fool. So many men are afraid of being considered fools. I
grant that public opinion is a powerful police influence for those who need it. Perhaps it is true that the
majority of men need the restraint of public opinion. Public opinion may keep a man better than he
would otherwise be—if not better morally, at least better as far as his social desirability is concerned.
But it is not a bad thing to be a fool for righteousness' sake. The best of it is that such fools usually live
long enough to prove that they were not fools—or the work they have begun lives long enough to
prove they were not foolish.
The money influence—the pressing to make a profit on an "investment"—and its consequent neglect
of or skimping of work and hence of service showed itself to me in many ways. It seemed to be at the
bottom of most troubles. It was the cause of low wages—for without well-directed work high wages
cannot be paid. And if the whole attention is not given to the work it cannot be well directed. Most
men want to be free to work; under the system in use they could not be free to work. During my first
experience I was not free—I could not give full play to my ideas. Everything had to be planned to
make money; the last consideration was the work. And the most curious part of it all was the insistence
that it was the money and not the work that counted. It did not seem to strike any one as illogical that
money should be put ahead of work—even though everyone had to admit that the profit had to come
from the work. The desire seemed to be to find a short cut to money and to pass over the obvious short
cut—which is through the work.
Take competition; I found that competition was supposed to be a menace and that a good manager
circumvented his competitors by getting a monopoly through artificial means. The idea was that there
were only a certain number of people who could buy and that it was necessary to get their trade ahead
of someone else. Some will remember that later many of the automobile manufacturers entered into an
association under the Selden Patent just so that it might be legally possible to control the price and the
output of automobiles. They had the same idea that so many trades unions have—the ridiculous notion
that more profit can be had doing less work than more. The plan, I believe, is a very antiquated one. I
could not see then and am still unable to see that there is not always enough for the man who does his
work; time spent in fighting competition is wasted; it had better be spent in doing the work. There are
always enough people ready and anxious to buy, provided you supply what they want and at the proper
price—and this applies to personal services as well as to goods.
During this time of reflection I was far from idle. We were going ahead with a four-cylinder motor and
the building of a pair of big racing cars. I had plenty of time, for I never left my business. I do not
believe a man can ever leave his business. He ought to think of it by day and dream of it by night. It is
nice to plan to do one's work in office hours, to take up the work in the morning, to drop it in the
evening—and not have a care until the next morning. It is perfectly possible to do that if one is so
constituted as to be willing through all of his life to accept direction, to be an employee, possibly a
responsible employee, but not a director or manager of anything. A manual labourer must have a limit
on his hours, otherwise he will wear himself out. If he intends to remain always a manual labourer,
then he should forget about his work when the whistle blows, but if he intends to go forward and do
anything, the whistle is only a signal to start thinking over the day's work in order to discover how it
might be done better.
The man who has the largest capacity for work and thought is the man who is bound to succeed. I
cannot pretend to say, because I do not know, whether the man who works always, who never leaves
his business, who is absolutely intent upon getting ahead, and who therefore does get ahead—is
happier than the man who keeps office hours, both for his brain and his hands. It is not necessary for
any one to decide the question. A ten-horsepower engine will not pull as much as a twenty. The man
who keeps brain office hours limits his horsepower. If he is satisfied to pull only the load that he has,
well and good, that is his affair—but he must not complain if another who has increased his
horsepower pulls more than he does. Leisure and work bring different results. If a man wants leisure
and gets it—then he has no cause to complain. But he cannot have both leisure and the results of work.
Concretely, what I most realized about business in that year—and I have been learning more each year
without finding it necessary to change my first conclusions—is this:
(1) That finance is given a place ahead of work and therefore tends to kill the work and destroy the
fundamental of service.
(2) That thinking first of money instead of work brings on fear of failure and this fear blocks every
avenue of business—it makes a man afraid of competition, of changing his methods, or of doing
anything which might change his condition.
(3) That the way is clear for any one who thinks first of service—of doing the work in the best possible
way.
CHAPTER III
STARTING THE REAL BUSINESS
In the little brick shop at 81 Park Place I had ample opportunity to work out the design and some of the
methods of manufacture of a new car. Even if it were possible to organize the exact kind of
corporation that I wanted—one in which doing the work well and suiting the public would be
controlling factors—it became apparent that I never could produce a thoroughly good motor car that
might be sold at a low price under the existing cut-and-try manufacturing methods.
Everybody knows that it is always possible to do a thing better the second time. I do not know why
manufacturing should not at that time have generally recognized this as a basic fact—unless it might
be that the manufacturers were in such a hurry to obtain something to sell that they did not take time
for adequate preparation. Making "to order" instead of making in volume is, I suppose, a habit, a
tradition, that has descended from the old handicraft days. Ask a hundred people how they want a
particular article made. About eighty will not know; they will leave it to you. Fifteen will think that
they must say something, while five will really have preferences and reasons. The ninety-five, made up
of those who do not know and admit it and the fifteen who do not know but do not admit it, constitute
the real market for any product. The five who want something special may or may not be able to pay
the price for special work. If they have the price, they can get the work, but they constitute a special
and limited market. Of the ninety-five perhaps ten or fifteen will pay a price for quality. Of those
remaining, a number will buy solely on price and without regard to quality. Their numbers are thinning
with each day. Buyers are learning how to buy. The majority will consider quality and buy the biggest
dollar's worth of quality. If, therefore, you discover what will give this 95 per cent. of people the best
all-round service and then arrange to manufacture at the very highest quality and sell at the very lowest
price, you will be meeting a demand which is so large that it may be called universal.
This is not standardizing. The use of the word "standardizing" is very apt to lead one into trouble, for it
implies a certain freezing of design and method and usually works out so that the manufacturer selects
whatever article he can the most easily make and sell at the highest profit. The public is not considered
either in the design or in the price. The thought behind most standardization is to be able to make a
larger profit. The result is that with the economies which are inevitable if you make only one thing, a
larger and larger profit is continually being had by the manufacturer. His output also becomes larger—
his facilities produce more—and before he knows it his markets are overflowing with goods which
will not sell. These goods would sell if the manufacturer would take a lower price for them. There is
always buying power present—but that buying power will not always respond to reductions in price. If
an article has been sold at too high a price and then, because of stagnant business, the price is suddenly
cut, the response is sometimes most disappointing. And for a very good reason. The public is wary. It
thinks that the price-cut is a fake and it sits around waiting for a real cut. We saw much of that last
year. If, on the contrary, the economies of making are transferred at once to the price and if it is well
known that such is the policy of the manufacturer, the public will have confidence in him and will
respond. They will trust him to give honest value. So standardization may seem bad business unless it
carries with it the plan of constantly reducing the price at which the article is sold. And the price has to
be reduced (this is very important) because of the manufacturing economies that have come about and
not because the falling demand by the public indicates that it is not satisfied with the price. The public
should always be wondering how it is possible to give so much for the money.
Standardization (to use the word as I understand it) is not just taking one's best selling article and
concentrating on it. It is planning day and night and probably for years, first on something which will
best suit the public and then on how it should be made. The exact processes of manufacturing will
develop of themselves. Then, if we shift the manufacturing from the profit to the service basis, we
shall have a real business in which the profits will be all that any one could desire.
All of this seems self-evident to me. It is the logical basis of any business that wants to serve 95 per
cent. of the community. It is the logical way in which the community can serve itself. I cannot
comprehend why all business does not go on this basis. All that has to be done in order to adopt it is to
overcome the habit of grabbing at the nearest dollar as though it were the only dollar in the world. The
habit has already to an extent been overcome. All the large and successful retail stores in this country
are on the one-price basis. The only further step required is to throw overboard the idea of pricing on
what the traffic will bear and instead go to the common-sense basis of pricing on what it costs to
manufacture and then reducing the cost of manufacture. If the design of the product has been
sufficiently studied, then changes in it will come very slowly. But changes in manufacturing processes
will come very rapidly and wholly naturally. That has been our experience in everything we have
undertaken. How naturally it has all come about, I shall later outline. The point that I wish to impress
here is that it is impossible to get a product on which one may concentrate unless an unlimited amount
of study is given beforehand. It is not just an afternoon's work.
These ideas were forming with me during this year of experimenting. Most of the experimenting went
into the building of racing cars. The idea in those days was that a first-class car ought to be a racer. I
never really thought much of racing, but following the bicycle idea, the manufacturers had the notion
that winning a race on a track told the public something about the merits of an automobile—although I
can hardly imagine any test that would tell less.
But, as the others were doing it, I, too, had to do it. In 1903, with Tom Cooper, I built two cars solely
for speed. They were quite alike. One we named the "999" and the other the "Arrow." If an automobile
were going to be known for speed, then I was going to make an automobile that would be known
wherever speed was known. These were. I put in four great big cylinders giving 80 H.P.—which up to
that time had been unheard of. The roar of those cylinders alone was enough to half kill a man. There
was only one seat. One life to a car was enough. I tried out the cars. Cooper tried out the cars. We let
them out at full speed. I cannot quite describe the sensation. Going over Niagara Falls would have
been but a pastime after a ride in one of them. I did not want to take the responsibility of racing the
"999" which we put up first, neither did Cooper. Cooper said he knew a man who lived on speed, that
nothing could go too fast for him. He wired to Salt Lake City and on came a professional bicycle rider
named Barney Oldfield. He had never driven a motor car, but he liked the idea of trying it. He said he
would try anything once.
It took us only a week to teach him how to drive. The man did not know what fear was. All that he had
to learn was how to control the monster. Controlling the fastest car of to-day was nothing as compared
to controlling that car. The steering wheel had not yet been thought of. All the previous cars that I had
built simply had tillers. On this one I put a two-handed tiller, for holding the car in line required all the
strength of a strong man. The race for which we were working was at three miles on the Grosse Point
track. We kept our cars as a dark horse. We left the predictions to the others. The tracks then were not
scientifically banked. It was not known how much speed a motor car could develop. No one knew
better than Oldfield what the turns meant and as he took his seat, while I was cranking the car for the
start, he remarked cheerily: "Well, this chariot may kill me, but they will say afterward that I was
going like hell when she took me over the bank."
And he did go…. He never dared to look around. He did not shut off on the curves. He simply let that
car go—and go it did. He was about half a mile ahead of the next man at the end of the race!
The "999" did what it was intended to do: It advertised the fact that I could build a fast motorcar. A
week after the race I formed the Ford Motor Company. I was vice-president, designer, master
mechanic, superintendent, and general manager. The capitalization of the company was one hundred
thousand dollars, and of this I owned 25 1/2 per cent. The total amount subscribed in cash was about
twenty-eight thousand dollars—which is the only money that the company has ever received for the
capital fund from other than operations. In the beginning I thought that it was possible,
notwithstanding my former experience, to go forward with a company in which I owned less than the
controlling share. I very shortly found I had to have control and therefore in 1906, with funds that I
had earned in the company, I bought enough stock to bring my holdings up to 51 per cent, and a little
later bought enough more to give me 58-1/2 per cent. The new equipment and the whole progress of
the company have always been financed out of earnings. In 1919 my son Edsel purchased the
remaining 41-1/2 per cent of the stock because certain of the minority stockholders disagreed with my
policies. For these shares he paid at the rate of $12,500 for each $100 par and in all paid about seventy-
five millions.
The original company and its equipment, as may be gathered, were not elaborate. We rented Strelow's
carpenter shop on Mack Avenue. In making my designs I had also worked out the methods of making,
but, since at that time we could not afford to buy machinery, the entire car was made according to my
designs, but by various manufacturers, and about all we did, even in the way of assembling, was to put
on the wheels, the tires, and the body. That would really be the most economical method of
manufacturing if only one could be certain that all of the various parts would be made on the
manufacturing plan that I have above outlined. The most economical manufacturing of the future will
be that in which the whole of an article is not made under one roof—unless, of course, it be a very
simple article. The modern—or better, the future—method is to have each part made where it may best
be made and then assemble the parts into a complete unit at the points of consumption. That is the
method we are now following and expect to extend. It would make no difference whether one
company or one individual owned all the factories fabricating the component parts of a single product,
or whether such part were made in our independently owned factory, if only all adopted the same
service methods. If we can buy as good a part as we can make ourselves and the supply is ample and
the price right, we do not attempt to make it ourselves—or, at any rate, to make more than an
emergency supply. In fact, it might be better to have the ownership widely scattered.
I had been experimenting principally upon the cutting down of weight. Excess weight kills any self-
propelled vehicle. There are a lot of fool ideas about weight. It is queer, when you come to think of it,
how some fool terms get into current use. There is the phrase "heavyweight" as applied to a man's
mental apparatus! What does it mean? No one wants to be fat and heavy of body—then why of head?
For some clumsy reason we have come to confuse strength with weight. The crude methods of early
building undoubtedly had much to do with this. The old ox-cart weighed a ton—and it had so much
weight that it was weak! To carry a few tons of humanity from New York to Chicago, the railroad
builds a train that weighs many hundred tons, and the result is an absolute loss of real strength and the
extravagant waste of untold millions in the form of power. The law of diminishing returns begins to
operate at the point where strength becomes weight. Weight may be desirable in a steam roller but
nowhere else. Strength has nothing to do with weight. The mentality of the man who does things in the
world is agile, light, and strong. The most beautiful things in the world are those from which all excess
weight has been eliminated. Strength is never just weight—either in men or things. Whenever any one
suggests to me that I might increase weight or add a part, I look into decreasing weight and eliminating
a part! The car that I designed was lighter than any car that had yet been made. It would have been
lighter if I had known how to make it so—later I got the materials to make the lighter car.
In our first year we built "Model A," selling the runabout for eight hundred and fifty dollars and the
tonneau for one hundred dollars more. This model had a two-cylinder opposed motor developing eight
horsepower. It had a chain drive, a seventy-two inch wheel base—which was supposed to be long—
and a fuel capacity of five gallons. We made and sold 1,708 cars in the first year. That is how well the
public responded.
Every one of these "Model A's" has a history. Take No. 420. Colonel D. C. Collier of California
bought it in 1904. He used it for a couple of years, sold it, and bought a new Ford. No. 420 changed
hands frequently until 1907 when it was bought by one Edmund Jacobs living near Ramona in the
heart of the mountains. He drove it for several years in the roughest kind of work. Then he bought a
new Ford and sold his old one. By 1915 No. 420 had passed into the hands of a man named Cantello
who took out the motor, hitched it to a water pump, rigged up shafts on the chassis and now, while the
motor chugs away at the pumping of water, the chassis drawn by a burro acts as a buggy. The moral,
of course, is that you can dissect a Ford but you cannot kill it.
In our first advertisement we said:
Our purpose is to construct and market an automobile specially designed for

everyday wear and tear—business, professional, and family use; an automobile
which will attain to a sufficient speed to satisfy the average person without
acquiring any of those breakneck velocities which are so universally condemned; a
machine which will be admired by man, woman, and child alike for its
compactness, its simplicity, its safety, its all-around convenience, and—last but not
least—its exceedingly reasonable price, which places it within the reach of many
thousands who could not think of paying the comparatively fabulous prices asked
for most machines.
And these are the points we emphasized:
Good material.
Simplicity—most of the cars at that time required considerable skill in their management.
The engine.
The ignition—which was furnished by two sets of six dry cell batteries.
The automatic oiling.
The simplicity and the ease of control of the transmission, which was of the planetary type.
The workmanship.
We did not make the pleasure appeal. We never have. In its first advertising we showed that a motor
car was a utility. We said:
We often hear quoted the old proverb, "Time is money"—and yet how few business and professional
men act as if they really believed its truth.
Men who are constantly complaining of shortage of time and lamenting the fewness of days in the
week—men to whom every five minutes wasted means a dollar thrown away—men to whom five
minutes' delay sometimes means the loss of many dollars—will yet depend on the haphazard,
uncomfortable, and limited means of transportation afforded by street cars, etc., when the investment
of an exceedingly moderate sum in the purchase of a perfected, efficient, high-grade automobile would
cut out anxiety and unpunctuality and provide a luxurious means of travel ever at your beck and call.
Always ready, always sure.
Built to save you time and consequent money.
Built to take you anywhere you want to go and bring you back again on time.
Built to add to your reputation for punctuality; to keep your customers good-humoured and in a buying
mood.
Built for business or pleasure—just as you say.
Built also for the good of your health—to carry you "jarlessly" over any kind of half decent roads, to
refresh your brain with the luxury of much "out-doorness" and your lungs with the "tonic of tonics"—
the right kind of atmosphere.
It is your say, too, when it comes to speed. You can—if you choose—loiter lingeringly through shady
avenues or you can press down on the foot-lever until all the scenery looks alike to you and you have
to keep your eyes skinned to count the milestones as they pass.
I am giving the gist of this advertisement to show that, from the beginning, we were looking to
providing service—we never bothered with a "sporting car."
The business went along almost as by magic. The cars gained a reputation for standing up. They were
tough, they were simple, and they were well made. I was working on my design for a universal single
model but I had not settled the designs nor had we the money to build and equip the proper kind of
plant for manufacturing. I had not the money to discover the very best and lightest materials. We still
had to accept the materials that the market offered—we got the best to be had but we had no facilities
for the scientific investigation of materials or for original research.
My associates were not convinced that it was possible to restrict our cars to a single model. The
automobile trade was following the old bicycle trade, in which every manufacturer thought it
necessary to bring out a new model each year and to make it so unlike all previous models that those
who had bought the former models would want to get rid of the old and buy the new. That was
supposed to be good business. It is the same idea that women submit to in their clothing and hats. That
is not service—it seeks only to provide something new, not something better. It is extraordinary how
firmly rooted is the notion that business—continuous selling—depends not on satisfying the customer
once and for all, but on first getting his money for one article and then persuading him he ought to buy
a new and different one. The plan which I then had in the back of my head but to which we were not
then sufficiently advanced to give expression, was that, when a model was settled upon then every
improvement on that model should be interchangeable with the old model, so that a car should never
get out of date. It is my ambition to have every piece of machinery, or other non-consumable product
that I turn out, so strong and so well made that no one ought ever to have to buy a second one. A good
machine of any kind ought to last as long as a good watch.
In the second year we scattered our energies among three models. We made a four-cylinder touring
car, "Model B," which sold for two thousand dollars; "Model C," which was a slightly improved
"Model A" and sold at fifty dollars more than the former price; and "Model F," a touring car which
sold for a thousand dollars. That is, we scattered our energy and increased prices—and therefore we
sold fewer cars than in the first year. The sales were 1,695 cars.
That "Model B"—the first four-cylinder car for general road use—had to be advertised. Winning a
race or making a record was then the best kind of advertising. So I fixed up the "Arrow," the twin of
the old "999"—in fact practically remade it—and a week before the New York Automobile show I
drove it myself over a surveyed mile straightaway on the ice. I shall never forget that race. The ice
seemed smooth enough, so smooth that if I had called off the trial we should have secured an immense
amount of the wrong kind of advertising, but instead of being smooth, that ice was seamed with
fissures which I knew were going to mean trouble the moment I got up speed. But there was nothing to
do but go through with the trial, and I let the old "Arrow" out. At every fissure the car leaped into the
air. I never knew how it was coming down. When I wasn't in the air, I was skidding, but somehow I
stayed top side up and on the course, making a record that went all over the world! That put "Model B"
on the map—but not enough on to overcome the price advances. No stunt and no advertising will sell
an article for any length of time. Business is not a game. The moral is coming.
Our little wooden shop had, with the business we were doing, become totally inadequate, and in 1906
we took out of our working capital sufficient funds to build a three-story plant at the corner of Piquette
and Beaubien streets—which for the first time gave us real manufacturing facilities. We began to make
and to assemble quite a number of the parts, although still we were principally an assembling shop. In
1905-1906 we made only two models—one the four-cylinder car at $2,000 and another touring car at
$1,000, both being the models of the previous year—and our sales dropped to 1,599 cars.
Some said it was because we had not brought out new models. I thought it was because our cars were
too expensive—they did not appeal to the 95 per cent. I changed the policy in the next year—having
first acquired stock control. For 1906-1907 we entirely left off making touring cars and made three
models of runabouts and roadsters, none of which differed materially from the other in manufacturing
process or in component parts, but were somewhat different in appearance. The big thing was that the
cheapest car sold for $600 and the most expensive for only $750, and right there came the complete
demonstration of what price meant. We sold 8,423 cars—nearly five times as many as in our biggest
previous year. Our banner week was that of May 15, 1908, when we assembled 311 cars in six
working days. It almost swamped our facilities. The foreman had a tallyboard on which he chalked up
each car as it was finished and turned over to the testers. The tallyboard was hardly equal to the task.
On one day in the following June we assembled an even one hundred cars.
In the next year we departed from the programme that had been so successful and I designed a big car
—fifty horsepower, six cylinder—that would burn up the roads. We continued making our small cars,
but the 1907 panic and the diversion to the more expensive model cut down the sales to 6,398 cars.
We had been through an experimenting period of five years. The cars were beginning to be sold in
Europe. The business, as an automobile business then went, was considered extraordinarily
prosperous. We had plenty of money. Since the first year we have practically always had plenty of
money. We sold for cash, we did not borrow money, and we sold directly to the purchaser. We had no
bad debts and we kept within ourselves on every move. I have always kept well within my resources. I
have never found it necessary to strain them, because, inevitably, if you give attention to work and
service, the resources will increase more rapidly than you can devise ways and means of disposing of
them.
We were careful in the selection of our salesmen. At first there was great difficulty in getting good
salesmen because the automobile trade was not supposed to be stable. It was supposed to be dealing in
a luxury—in pleasure vehicles. We eventually appointed agents, selecting the very best men we could
find, and then paying to them a salary larger than they could possibly earn in business for themselves.
In the beginning we had not paid much in the way of salaries. We were feeling our way, but when we
knew what our way was, we adopted the policy of paying the very highest reward for service and then
insisting upon getting the highest service. Among the requirements for an agent we laid down the
following:
(1) A progressive, up-to-date man keenly alive to the possibilities of business.
(2) A suitable place of business clean and dignified in appearance.
(3) A stock of parts sufficient to make prompt replacements and keep in active service every Ford car
in his territory.
(4) An adequately equipped repair shop which has in it the right machinery for every necessary repair
and adjustment.
(5) Mechanics who are thoroughly familiar with the construction and operation of Ford cars.
(6) A comprehensive bookkeeping system and a follow-up sales system, so that it may be instantly
apparent what is the financial status of the various departments of his business, the condition and size
of his stock, the present owners of cars, and the future prospects.
(7) Absolute cleanliness throughout every department. There must be no unwashed windows, dusty
furniture, dirty floors.
(8) A suitable display sign.
(9) The adoption of policies which will ensure absolutely square dealing and the highest character of
business ethics.
And this is the general instruction that was issued:
A dealer or a salesman ought to have the name of every possible automobile buyer
in his territory, including all those who have never given the matter a thought. He
should then personally solicit by visitation if possible—by correspondence at the
least—every man on that list and then making necessary memoranda, know the
automobile situation as related to every resident so solicited. If your territory is too
large to permit this, you have too much territory.
The way was not easy. We were harried by a big suit brought against the company to try to force us
into line with an association of automobile manufacturers, who were operating under the false
principle that there was only a limited market for automobiles and that a monopoly of that market was
essential. This was the famous Selden Patent suit. At times the support of our defense severely strained
our resources. Mr. Selden, who has but recently died, had little to do with the suit. It was the
association which sought a monopoly under the patent. The situation was this:
George B. Selden, a patent attorney, filed an application as far back as 1879 for a patent the object of
which was stated to be "The production of a safe, simple, and cheap road locomotive, light in weight,
easy to control, possessed of sufficient power to overcome an ordinary inclination." This application
was kept alive in the Patent Office, by methods which are perfectly legal, until 1895, when the patent
was granted. In 1879, when the application was filed, the automobile was practically unknown to the
general public, but by the time the patent was issued everybody was familiar with self-propelled
vehicles, and most of the men, including myself, who had been for years working on motor propulsion,
were surprised to learn that what we had made practicable was covered by an application of years
before, although the applicant had kept his idea merely as an idea. He had done nothing to put it into
practice.
The specific claims under the patent were divided into six groups and I think that not a single one of
them was a really new idea even in 1879 when the application was filed. The Patent Office allowed a
combination and issued a so-called "combination patent" deciding that the combination (a) of a
carriage with its body machinery and steering wheel, with the (b) propelling mechanism clutch and
gear, and finally (c) the engine, made a valid patent.
With all of that we were not concerned. I believed that my engine had nothing whatsoever in common
with what Selden had in mind. The powerful combination of manufacturers who called themselves the
"licensed manufacturers" because they operated under licenses from the patentee, brought suit against
us as soon as we began to be a factor in motor production. The suit dragged on. It was intended to
scare us out of business. We took volumes of testimony, and the blow came on September 15, 1909,
when Judge Hough rendered an opinion in the United States District Court finding against us.
Immediately that Licensed Association began to advertise, warning prospective purchasers against our
cars. They had done the same thing in 1903 at the start of the suit, when it was thought that we could
be put out of business. I had implicit confidence that eventually we should win our suit. I simply knew
that we were right, but it was a considerable blow to get the first decision against us, for we believed
that many buyers—even though no injunction was issued against us—would be frightened away from
buying because of the threats of court action against individual owners. The idea was spread that if the
suit finally went against me, every man who owned a Ford car would be prosecuted. Some of my more
enthusiastic opponents, I understand, gave it out privately that there would be criminal as well as civil
suits and that a man buying a Ford car might as well be buying a ticket to jail. We answered with an
advertisement for which we took four pages in the principal newspapers all over the country. We set
out our case—we set out our confidence in victory—and in conclusion said:
In conclusion we beg to state if there are any prospective automobile buyers who are at all intimidated
by the claims made by our adversaries that we will give them, in addition to the protection of the Ford
Motor Company with its some $6,000,000.00 of assets, an individual bond backed by a Company of
more than $6,000,000.00 more of assets, so that each and every individual owner of a Ford car will be
protected until at least $12,000,000.00 of assets have been wiped out by those who desire to control
and monopolize this wonderful industry.
The bond is yours for the asking, so do not allow yourself to be sold inferior cars at extravagant prices
because of any statement made by this "Divine" body.
N. B.—This fight is not being waged by the Ford Motor Company without the advice and counsel of
the ablest patent attorneys of the East and West.
We thought that the bond would give assurance to the buyers—that they needed confidence. They did
not. We sold more than eighteen thousand cars—nearly double the output of the previous year—and I
think about fifty buyers asked for bonds—perhaps it was less than that.
As a matter of fact, probably nothing so well advertised the Ford car and the Ford Motor Company as
did this suit. It appeared that we were the under dog and we had the public's sympathy. The association
had seventy million dollars—we at the beginning had not half that number of thousands. I never had a
doubt as to the outcome, but nevertheless it was a sword hanging over our heads that we could as well
do without. Prosecuting that suit was probably one of the most shortsighted acts that any group of
American business men has ever combined to commit. Taken in all its sidelights, it forms the best
possible example of joining unwittingly to kill a trade. I regard it as most fortunate for the automobile
makers of the country that we eventually won, and the association ceased to be a serious factor in the
business. By 1908, however, in spite of this suit, we had come to a point where it was possible to
announce and put into fabrication the kind of car that I wanted to build.
CHAPTER IV
THE SECRET OF MANUFACTURING AND SERVING
Now I am not outlining the career of the Ford Motor Company for any personal reason. I am not
saying: "Go thou and do likewise." What I am trying to emphasize is that the ordinary way of doing
business is not the best way. I am coming to the point of my entire departure from the ordinary
methods. From this point dates the extraordinary success of the company.
We had been fairly following the custom of the trade. Our automobile was less complex than any
other. We had no outside money in the concern. But aside from these two points we did not differ
materially from the other automobile companies, excepting that we had been somewhat more
successful and had rigidly pursued the policy of taking all cash discounts, putting our profits back into
the business, and maintaining a large cash balance. We entered cars in all of the races. We advertised
and we pushed our sales. Outside of the simplicity of the construction of the car, our main difference in
design was that we made no provision for the purely "pleasure car." We were just as much a pleasure
car as any other car on the market, but we gave no attention to purely luxury features. We would do
special work for a buyer, and I suppose that we would have made a special car at a price. We were a
prosperous company. We might easily have sat down and said: "Now we have arrived. Let us hold
what we have got."
Indeed, there was some disposition to take this stand. Some of the stockholders were seriously alarmed
when our production reached one hundred cars a day. They wanted to do something to stop me from
ruining the company, and when I replied to the effect that one hundred cars a day was only a trifle and
that I hoped before long to make a thousand a day, they were inexpressibly shocked and I understand
seriously contemplated court action. If I had followed the general opinion of my associates I should
have kept the business about as it was, put our funds into a fine administration building, tried to make
bargains with such competitors as seemed too active, made new designs from time to time to catch the
fancy of the public, and generally have passed on into the position of a quiet, respectable citizen with a
quiet, respectable business.
The temptation to stop and hang on to what one has is quite natural. I can entirely sympathize with the
desire to quit a life of activity and retire to a life of ease. I have never felt the urge myself but I can
comprehend what it is—although I think that a man who retires ought entirely to get out of a business.
There is a disposition to retire and retain control. It was, however, no part of my plan to do anything of
that sort. I regarded our progress merely as an invitation to do more—as an indication that we had
reached a place where we might begin to perform a real service. I had been planning every day through
these years toward a universal car. The public had given its reactions to the various models. The cars in
service, the racing, and the road tests gave excellent guides as to the changes that ought to be made,
and even by 1905 I had fairly in mind the specifications of the kind of car I wanted to build. But I
lacked the material to give strength without weight. I came across that material almost by accident.
In 1905 I was at a motor race at Palm Beach. There was a big smash-up and a French car was wrecked.
We had entered our "Model K"—the high-powered six. I thought the foreign cars had smaller and
better parts than we knew anything about. After the wreck I picked up a little valve strip stem. It was
very light and very strong. I asked what it was made of. Nobody knew. I gave the stem to my assistant.
"Find out all about this," I told him. "That is the kind of material we ought to have in our cars."
He found eventually that it was a French steel and that there was vanadium in it. We tried every steel
maker in America—not one could make vanadium steel. I sent to England for a man who understood
how to make the steel commercially. The next thing was to get a plant to turn it out. That was another
problem. Vanadium requires 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit. The ordinary furnace could not go beyond
2,700 degrees. I found a small steel company in Canton, Ohio. I offered to guarantee them against loss
if they would run a heat for us. They agreed. The first heat was a failure. Very little vanadium
remained in the steel. I had them try again, and the second time the steel came through. Until then we
had been forced to be satisfied with steel running between 60,000 and 70,000 pounds tensile strength.
With vanadium, the strength went up to 170,000 pounds.
Having vanadium in hand I pulled apart our models and tested in detail to determine what kind of steel
was best for every part—whether we wanted a hard steel, a tough steel, or an elastic steel. We, for the
first time I think, in the history of any large construction, determined scientifically the exact quality of
the steel. As a result we then selected twenty different types of steel for the various steel parts. About
ten of these were vanadium. Vanadium was used wherever strength and lightness were required. Of
course they are not all the same kind of vanadium steel. The other elements vary according to whether
the part is to stand hard wear or whether it needs spring—in short, according to what it needs. Before
these experiments I believe that not more than four different grades of steel had ever been used in
automobile construction. By further experimenting, especially in the direction of heat treating, we have
been able still further to increase the strength of the steel and therefore to reduce the weight of the car.
In 1910 the French Department of Commerce and Industry took one of our steering spindle connecting
rod yokes—selecting it as a vital unit—and tried it against a similar part from what they considered the
best French car, and in every test our steel proved the stronger.
The vanadium steel disposed of much of the weight. The other requisites of a universal car I had
already worked out and many of them were in practice. The design had to balance. Men die because a
part gives out. Machines wreck themselves because some parts are weaker than others. Therefore, a
part of the problem in designing a universal car was to have as nearly as possible all parts of equal
strength considering their purpose—to put a motor in a one-horse shay. Also it had to be fool proof.
This was difficult because a gasoline motor is essentially a delicate instrument and there is a wonderful
opportunity for any one who has a mind that way to mess it up. I adopted this slogan:
"When one of my cars breaks down I know I am to blame."
From the day the first motor car appeared on the streets it had to me appeared to be a necessity. It was
this knowledge and assurance that led me to build to the one end—a car that would meet the wants of
the multitudes. All my efforts were then and still are turned to the production of one car—one model.
And, year following year, the pressure was, and still is, to improve and refine and make better, with an
increasing reduction in price. The universal car had to have these attributes:
(1) Quality in material to give service in use. Vanadium steel is the strongest, toughest, and most
lasting of steels. It forms the foundation and super-structure of the cars. It is the highest quality steel in
this respect in the world, regardless of price.
(2) Simplicity in operation—because the masses are not mechanics.

(3) Power in sufficient quantity.
(4) Absolute reliability—because of the varied uses to which the cars would be put and the variety of
roads over which they would travel.
(5) Lightness. With the Ford there are only 7.95 pounds to be carried by each cubic inch of piston
displacement. This is one of the reasons why Ford cars are "always going," wherever and whenever
you see them—through sand and mud, through slush, snow, and water, up hills, across fields and
roadless plains.
(6) Control—to hold its speed always in hand, calmly and safely meeting every emergency and
contingency either in the crowded streets of the city or on dangerous roads. The planetary transmission
of the Ford gave this control and anybody could work it. That is the "why" of the saying: "Anybody
can drive a Ford." It can turn around almost anywhere.
(7) The more a motor car weighs, naturally the more fuel and lubricants are used in the driving; the
lighter the weight, the lighter the expense of operation. The light weight of the Ford car in its early
years was used as an argument against it. Now that is all changed.
The design which I settled upon was called "Model T." The important feature of the new model—
which, if it were accepted, as I thought it would be, I intended to make the only model and then start
into real production—was its simplicity. There were but four constructional units in the car—the
power plant, the frame, the front axle, and the rear axle. All of these were easily accessible and they
were designed so that no special skill would be required for their repair or replacement. I believed
then, although I said very little about it because of the novelty of the idea, that it ought to be possible
to have parts so simple and so inexpensive that the menace of expensive hand repair work would be
entirely eliminated. The parts could be made so cheaply that it would be less expensive to buy new
ones than to have old ones repaired. They could be carried in hardware shops just as nails or bolts are
carried. I thought that it was up to me as the designer to make the car so completely simple that no one
could fail to understand it.
That works both ways and applies to everything. The less complex an article, the easier it is to make,
the cheaper it may be sold, and therefore the greater number may be sold.
It is not necessary to go into the technical details of the construction but perhaps this is as good a place
as any to review the various models, because "Model T" was the last of the models and the policy
which it brought about took this business out of the ordinary line of business. Application of the same
idea would take any business out of the ordinary run.
I designed eight models in all before "Model T." They were: "Model A," "Model B," "Model C,"
"Model F," "Model N," "Model R," "Model S," and "Model K." Of these, Models "A," "C," and "F"
had two-cylinder opposed horizontal motors. In "Model A" the motor was at the rear of the driver's
seat. In all of the other models it was in a hood in front. Models "B," "N," "R," and "S" had motors of
the four-cylinder vertical type. "Model K" had six cylinders. "Model A" developed eight horsepower.
"Model B" developed twenty-four horsepower with a 4-1/2-inch cylinder and a 5-inch stroke. The
highest horsepower was in "Model K," the six-cylinder car, which developed forty horsepower. The
largest cylinders were those of "Model B." The smallest were in Models "N," "R," and "S" which were
3-3/4 inches in diameter with a 3-3/8-inch stroke. "Model T" has a 3-3/4-inch cylinder with a 4-inch
stroke. The ignition was by dry batteries in all excepting "Model B," which had storage batteries, and
in "Model K" which had both battery and magneto. In the present model, the magneto is a part of the
power plant and is built in. The clutch in the first four models was of the cone type; in the last four and
in the present model, of the multiple disc type. The transmission in all of the cars has been planetary.
"Model A" had a chain drive. "Model B" had a shaft drive. The next two models had chain drives.
Since then all of the cars have had shaft drives. "Model A" had a 72-inch wheel base. Model "B,"
which was an extremely good car, had 92 inches. "Model K" had 120 inches. "Model C" had 78
inches. The others had 84 inches, and the present car has 100 inches. In the first five models all of the
equipment was extra. The next three were sold with a partial equipment. The present car is sold with
full equipment. Model "A" weighed 1,250 pounds. The lightest cars were Models "N" and "R." They
weighed 1,050 pounds, but they were both runabouts. The heaviest car was the six-cylinder, which
weighed 2,000 pounds. The present car weighs 1,200 lbs.
The "Model T" had practically no features which were not contained in some one or other of the
previous models. Every detail had been fully tested in practice. There was no guessing as to whether or
not it would be a successful model. It had to be. There was no way it could escape being so, for it had
not been made in a day. It contained all that I was then able to put into a motor car plus the material,
which for the first time I was able to obtain. We put out "Model T" for the season 1908-1909.
The company was then five years old. The original factory space had been .28 acre. We had employed
an average of 311 people in the first year, built 1,708 cars, and had one branch house. In 1908, the
factory space had increased to 2.65 acres and we owned the building. The average number of
employees had increased to 1,908. We built 6,181 cars and had fourteen branch houses. It was a
prosperous business.
During the season 1908-1909 we continued to make Models "R" and "S," four-cylinder runabouts and
roadsters, the models that had previously been so successful, and which sold at $700 and $750. But
"Model T" swept them right out. We sold 10,607 cars—a larger number than any manufacturer had
ever sold. The price for the touring car was $850. On the same chassis we mounted a town car at
$1,000, a roadster at $825, a coupe at $950, and a landaulet at $950.
This season demonstrated conclusively to me that it was time to put the new policy in force. The
salesmen, before I had announced the policy, were spurred by the great sales to think that even greater
sales might be had if only we had more models. It is strange how, just as soon as an article becomes
successful, somebody starts to think that it would be more successful if only it were different. There is
a tendency to keep monkeying with styles and to spoil a good thing by changing it. The salesmen were
insistent on increasing the line. They listened to the 5 per cent., the special customers who could say
what they wanted, and forgot all about the 95 per cent. who just bought without making any fuss. No
business can improve unless it pays the closest possible attention to complaints and suggestions. If
there is any defect in service then that must be instantly and rigorously investigated, but when the
suggestion is only as to style, one has to make sure whether it is not merely a personal whim that is
being voiced. Salesmen always want to cater to whims instead of acquiring sufficient knowledge of
their product to be able to explain to the customer with the whim that what they have will satisfy his
every requirement—that is, of course, provided what they have does satisfy these requirements.
Therefore in 1909 I announced one morning, without any previous warning, that in the future we were
going to build only one model, that the model was going to be "Model T," and that the chassis would
be exactly the same for all cars, and I remarked:
"Any customer can have a car painted any colour that he wants so long as it is black."
I cannot say that any one agreed with me. The selling people could not of course see the advantages
that a single model would bring about in production. More than that, they did not particularly care.
They thought that our production was good enough as it was and there was a very decided opinion that
lowering the sales price would hurt sales, that the people who wanted quality would be driven away
and that there would be none to replace them. There was very little conception of the motor industry. A
motor car was still regarded as something in the way of a luxury. The manufacturers did a good deal to
spread this idea. Some clever persons invented the name "pleasure car" and the advertising emphasized
the pleasure features. The sales people had ground for their objections and particularly when I made
the following announcement:
"I will build a motor car for the great multitude. It will be large enough for the family but small enough
for the individual to run and care for. It will be constructed of the best materials, by the best men to be
hired, after the simplest designs that modern engineering can devise. But it will be so low in price that
no man making a good salary will be unable to own one—and enjoy with his family the blessing of
hours of pleasure in God's great open spaces."
This announcement was received not without pleasure. The general comment was:
"If Ford does that he will be out of business in six months."
The impression was that a good car could not be built at a low price, and that, anyhow, there was no
use in building a low-priced car because only wealthy people were in the market for cars. The 1908-
1909 sales of more than ten thousand cars had convinced me that we needed a new factory. We already
had a big modern factory—the Piquette Street plant. It was as good as, perhaps a little better than, any
automobile factory in the country. But I did not see how it was going to care for the sales and
production that were inevitable. So I bought sixty acres at Highland Park, which was then considered
away out in the country from Detroit. The amount of ground bought and the plans for a bigger factory
than the world has ever seen were opposed. The question was already being asked:
"How soon will Ford blow up?"
Nobody knows how many thousand times it has been asked since. It is asked only because of the
failure to grasp that a principle rather than an individual is at work, and the principle is so simple that it
seems mysterious.
For 1909-1910, in order to pay for the new land and buildings, I slightly raised the prices. This is
perfectly justifiable and results in a benefit, not an injury, to the purchaser. I did exactly the same thing
a few years ago—or rather, in that case I did not lower the price as is my annual custom, in order to
build the River Rouge plant. The extra money might in each case have been had by borrowing, but
then we should have had a continuing charge upon the business and all subsequent cars would have
had to bear this charge. The price of all the models was increased $100, with the exception of the
roadster, which was increased only $75 and of the landaulet and town car, which were increased $150
and $200 respectively. We sold 18,664 cars, and then for 1910-1911, with the new facilities, I cut the
touring car from $950 to $780 and we sold 34,528 cars. That is the beginning of the steady reduction
in the price of the cars in the face of ever-increasing cost of materials and ever-higher wages.
Contrast the year 1908 with the year 1911. The factory space increased from 2.65 to 32 acres. The
average number of employees from 1,908 to 4,110, and the cars built from a little over six thousand to
nearly thirty-five thousand. You will note that men were not employed in proportion to the output.
We were, almost overnight it seems, in great production. How did all this come about?
Simply through the application of an inevitable principle. By the application of intelligently directed
power and machinery. In a little dark shop on a side street an old man had laboured for years making
axe handles. Out of seasoned hickory he fashioned them, with the help of a draw shave, a chisel, and a
supply of sandpaper. Carefully was each handle weighed and balanced. No two of them were alike.
The curve must exactly fit the hand and must conform to the grain of the wood. From dawn until dark
the old man laboured. His average product was eight handles a week, for which he received a dollar
and a half each. And often some of these were unsaleable—because the balance was not true.
To-day you can buy a better axe handle, made by machinery, for a few cents. And you need not worry
about the balance. They are all alike—and every one is perfect. Modern methods applied in a big way
have not only brought the cost of axe handles down to a fraction of their former cost—but they have
immensely improved the product.
It was the application of these same methods to the making of the Ford car that at the very start
lowered the price and heightened the quality. We just developed an idea. The nucleus of a business
may be an idea. That is, an inventor or a thoughtful workman works out a new and better way to serve
some established human need; the idea commends itself, and people want to avail themselves of it. In
this way a single individual may prove, through his idea or discovery, the nucleus of a business. But
the creation of the body and bulk of that business is shared by everyone who has anything to do with it.
No manufacturer can say: "I built this business"—if he has required the help of thousands of men in
building it. It is a joint production. Everyone employed in it has contributed something to it. By
working and producing they make it possible for the purchasing world to keep coming to that business
for the type of service it provides, and thus they help establish a custom, a trade, a habit which supplies
them with a livelihood. That is the way our company grew and just how I shall start explaining in the
next chapter.
In the meantime, the company had become world-wide. We had branches in London and in Australia.
We were shipping to every part of the world, and in England particularly we were beginning to be as
well known as in America. The introduction of the car in England was somewhat difficult on account
of the failure of the American bicycle. Because the American bicycle had not been suited to English
uses it was taken for granted and made a point of by the distributors that no American vehicle could
appeal to the British market. Two "Model A's" found their way to England in 1903. The newspapers
refused to notice them. The automobile agents refused to take the slightest interest. It was rumoured
that the principal components of its manufacture were string and hoop wire and that a buyer would be
lucky if it held together for a fortnight! In the first year about a dozen cars in all were used; the second
was only a little better. And I may say as to the reliability of that "Model A" that most of them after
nearly twenty years are still in some kind of service in England.
In 1905 our agent entered a "Model C" in the Scottish Reliability Trials. In those days reliability runs
were more popular in England than motor races. Perhaps there was no inkling that after all an
automobile was not merely a toy. The Scottish Trials was over eight hundred miles of hilly, heavy
roads. The Ford came through with only one involuntary stop against it. That started the Ford sales in
England. In that same year Ford taxicabs were placed in London for the first time. In the next several
years the sales began to pick up. The cars went into every endurance and reliability test and won every
one of them. The Brighton dealer had ten Fords driven over the South Downs for two days in a kind of
steeplechase and every one of them came through. As a result six hundred cars were sold that year. In
1911 Henry Alexander drove a "Model T" to the top of Ben Nevis, 4,600 feet. That year 14,060 cars
were sold in England, and it has never since been necessary to stage any kind of a stunt. We eventually
opened our own factory at Manchester; at first it was purely an assembling plant. But as the years have
gone by we have progressively made more and more of the car.
CHAPTER V
GETTING INTO PRODUCTION
If a device would save in time just 10 per cent. or increase results 10 per cent., then its absence is
always a 10 per cent. tax. If the time of a person is worth fifty cents an hour, a 10 per cent. saving is
worth five cents an hour. If the owner of a skyscraper could increase his income 10 per cent., he would
willingly pay half the increase just to know how. The reason why he owns a skyscraper is that science
has proved that certain materials, used in a given way, can save space and increase rental incomes. A
building thirty stories high needs no more ground space than one five stories high. Getting along with
the old-style architecture costs the five-story man the income of twenty-five floors. Save ten steps a
day for each of twelve thousand employees and you will have saved fifty miles of wasted motion and
misspent energy.
Those are the principles on which the production of my plant was built up. They all come practically
as of course. In the beginning we tried to get machinists. As the necessity for production increased it
became apparent not only that enough machinists were not to be had, but also that skilled men were
not necessary in production, and out of this grew a principle that I later want to present in full.
It is self-evident that a majority of the people in the world are not mentally—even if they are
physically—capable of making a good living. That is, they are not capable of furnishing with their own
hands a sufficient quantity of the goods which this world needs to be able to exchange their unaided
product for the goods which they need. I have heard it said, in fact I believe it is quite a current
thought, that we have taken skill out of work. We have not. We have put in skill. We have put a higher
skill into planning, management, and tool building, and the results of that skill are enjoyed by the man
who is not skilled. This I shall later enlarge on.
We have to recognize the unevenness in human mental equipments. If every job in our place required
skill the place would never have existed. Sufficiently skilled men to the number needed could not have
been trained in a hundred years. A million men working by hand could not even approximate our
present daily output. No one could manage a million men. But more important than that, the product of
the unaided hands of those million men could not be sold at a price in consonance with buying power.
And even if it were possible to imagine such an aggregation and imagine its management and
correlation, just think of the area that it would have to occupy! How many of the men would be
engaged, not in producing, but in merely carrying from place to place what the other men had
produced? I cannot see how under such conditions the men could possibly be paid more than ten or
twenty cents a day—for of course it is not the employer who pays wages. He only handles the money.
It is the product that pays the wages and it is the management that arranges the production so that the
product may pay the wages.
The more economical methods of production did not begin all at once. They began gradually—just as
we began gradually to make our own parts. "Model T" was the first motor that we made ourselves. The
great economies began in assembling and then extended to other sections so that, while to-day we have
skilled mechanics in plenty, they do not produce automobiles—they make it easy for others to produce
them. Our skilled men are the tool makers, the experimental workmen, the machinists, and the pattern
makers. They are as good as any men in the world—so good, indeed, that they should not be wasted in
doing that which the machines they contrive can do better. The rank and file of men come to us
unskilled; they learn their jobs within a few hours or a few days. If they do not learn within that time
they will never be of any use to us. These men are, many of them, foreigners, and all that is required
before they are taken on is that they should be potentially able to do enough work to pay the overhead
charges on the floor space they occupy. They do not have to be able-bodied men. We have jobs that
require great physical strength—although they are rapidly lessening; we have other jobs that require no
strength whatsoever—jobs which, as far as strength is concerned, might be attended to by a child of
three.
It is not possible, without going deeply into technical processes, to present the whole development of
manufacturing, step by step, in the order in which each thing came about. I do not know that this could
be done, because something has been happening nearly every day and nobody can keep track. Take at
random a number of the changes. From them it is possible not only to gain some idea of what will
happen when this world is put on a production basis, but also to see how much more we pay for things
than we ought to, and how much lower wages are than they ought to be, and what a vast field remains
to be explored. The Ford Company is only a little way along on the journey.
A Ford car contains about five thousand parts—that is counting screws, nuts, and all. Some of the parts
are fairly bulky and others are almost the size of watch parts. In our first assembling we simply started
to put a car together at a spot on the floor and workmen brought to it the parts as they were needed in
exactly the same way that one builds a house. When we started to make parts it was natural to create a
single department of the factory to make that part, but usually one workman performed all of the
operations necessary on a small part. The rapid press of production made it necessary to devise plans
of production that would avoid having the workers falling over one another. The undirected worker
spends more of his time walking about for materials and tools than he does in working; he gets small
pay because pedestrianism is not a highly paid line.
The first step forward in assembly came when we began taking the work to the men instead of the men
to the work. We now have two general principles in all operations—that a man shall never have to take
more than one step, if possibly it can be avoided, and that no man need ever stoop over.
The principles of assembly are these:
(1) Place the tools and the men in the sequence of the operation so that each component part shall
travel the least possible distance while in the process of finishing.
(2) Use work slides or some other form of carrier so that when a workman completes his operation, he
drops the part always in the same place—which place must always be the most convenient place to his
hand—and if possible have gravity carry the part to the next workman for his operation.
(3) Use sliding assembling lines by which the parts to be assembled are delivered at convenient
distances.
The net result of the application of these principles is the reduction of the necessity for thought on the
part of the worker and the reduction of his movements to a minimum. He does as nearly as possible
only one thing with only one movement. The assembling of the chassis is, from the point of view of
the non-mechanical mind, our most interesting and perhaps best known operation, and at one time it
was an exceedingly important operation. We now ship out the parts for assembly at the point of
distribution.
Along about April 1, 1913, we first tried the experiment of an assembly line. We tried it on assembling
the flywheel magneto. We try everything in a little way first—we will rip out anything once we
discover a better way, but we have to know absolutely that the new way is going to be better than the
old before we do anything drastic.
I believe that this was the first moving line ever installed. The idea came in a general way from the
overhead trolley that the Chicago packers use in dressing beef. We had previously assembled the fly-
wheel magneto in the usual method. With one workman doing a complete job he could turn out from
thirty-five to forty pieces in a nine-hour day, or about twenty minutes to an assembly. What he did
alone was then spread into twenty-nine operations; that cut down the assembly time to thirteen
minutes, ten seconds. Then we raised the height of the line eight inches—this was in 1914—and cut
the time to seven minutes. Further experimenting with the speed that the work should move at cut the
time down to five minutes. In short, the result is this: by the aid of scientific study one man is now able
to do somewhat more than four did only a comparatively few years ago. That line established the
efficiency of the method and we now use it everywhere. The assembling of the motor, formerly done
by one man, is now divided into eighty-four operations—those men do the work that three times their
number formerly did. In a short time we tried out the plan on the chassis.
About the best we had done in stationary chassis assembling was an average of twelve hours and
twenty-eight minutes per chassis. We tried the experiment of drawing the chassis with a rope and
windlass down a line two hundred fifty feet long. Six assemblers traveled with the chassis and picked
up the parts from piles placed along the line. This rough experiment reduced the time to five hours
fifty minutes per chassis. In the early part of 1914 we elevated the assembly line. We had adopted the
policy of "man-high" work; we had one line twenty-six and three quarter inches and another twenty-
four and one half inches from the floor—to suit squads of different heights. The waist-high
arrangement and a further subdivision of work so that each man had fewer movements cut down the
labour time per chassis to one hour thirty-three minutes. Only the chassis was then assembled in the
line. The body was placed on in "John R. Street"—the famous street that runs through our Highland
Park factories. Now the line assembles the whole car.
It must not be imagined, however, that all this worked out as quickly as it sounds. The speed of the
moving work had to be carefully tried out; in the fly-wheel magneto we first had a speed of sixty
inches per minute. That was too fast. Then we tried eighteen inches per minute. That was too slow.
Finally we settled on forty-four inches per minute. The idea is that a man must not be hurried in his
work—he must have every second necessary but not a single unnecessary second. We have worked out
speeds for each assembly, for the success of the chassis assembly caused us gradually to overhaul our
entire method of manufacturing and to put all assembling in mechanically driven lines. The chassis
assembling line, for instance, goes at a pace of six feet per minute; the front axle assembly line goes at
one hundred eighty-nine inches per minute. In the chassis assembling are forty-five separate operations
or stations. The first men fasten four mud-guard brackets to the chassis frame; the motor arrives on the
tenth operation and so on in detail. Some men do only one or two small operations, others do more.
The man who places a part does not fasten it—the part may not be fully in place until after several
operations later. The man who puts in a bolt does not put on the nut; the man who puts on the nut does
not tighten it. On operation number thirty-four the budding motor gets its gasoline; it has previously
received lubrication; on operation number forty-four the radiator is filled with water, and on operation
number forty-five the car drives out onto John R. Street.
Essentially the same ideas have been applied to the assembling of the motor. In October, 1913, it
required nine hours and fifty-four minutes of labour time to assemble one motor; six months later, by
the moving assembly method, this time had been reduced to five hours and fifty-six minutes. Every
piece of work in the shops moves; it may move on hooks on overhead chains going to assembly in the
exact order in which the parts are required; it may travel on a moving platform, or it may go by
gravity, but the point is that there is no lifting or trucking of anything other than materials. Materials
are brought in on small trucks or trailers operated by cut-down Ford chassis, which are sufficiently
mobile and quick to get in and out of any aisle where they may be required to go. No workman has
anything to do with moving or lifting anything. That is all in a separate department—the department of
transportation.
We started assembling a motor car in a single factory. Then as we began to make parts, we began to
departmentalize so that each department would do only one thing. As the factory is now organized
each department makes only a single part or assembles a part. A department is a little factory in itself.
The part comes into it as raw material or as a casting, goes through the sequence of machines and heat
treatments, or whatever may be required, and leaves that department finished. It was only because of
transport ease that the departments were grouped together when we started to manufacture. I did not
know that such minute divisions would be possible; but as our production grew and departments
multiplied, we actually changed from making automobiles to making parts. Then we found that we had
made another new discovery, which was that by no means all of the parts had to be made in one
factory. It was not really a discovery—it was something in the nature of going around in a circle to my
first manufacturing when I bought the motors and probably ninety per cent. of the parts. When we
began to make our own parts we practically took for granted that they all had to be made in the one
factory—that there was some special virtue in having a single roof over the manufacture of the entire
car. We have now developed away from this. If we build any more large factories, it will be only
because the making of a single part must be in such tremendous volume as to require a large unit. I
hope that in the course of time the big Highland Park plant will be doing only one or two things. The
casting has already been taken away from it and has gone to the River Rouge plant. So now we are on
our way back to where we started from—excepting that, instead of buying our parts on the outside, we
are beginning to make them in our own factories on the outside.
This is a development which holds exceptional consequences, for it means, as I shall enlarge in a later
chapter, that highly standardized, highly subdivided industry need no longer become concentrated in
large plants with all the inconveniences of transportation and housing that hamper large plants. A
thousand or five hundred men ought to be enough in a single factory; then there would be no problem
of transporting them to work or away from work and there would be no slums or any of the other
unnatural ways of living incident to the overcrowding that must take place if the workmen are to live
within reasonable distances of a very large plant.
Highland Park now has five hundred departments. Down at our Piquette plant we had only eighteen
departments, and formerly at Highland Park we had only one hundred and fifty departments. This
illustrates how far we are going in the manufacture of parts.
Hardly a week passes without some improvement being made somewhere in machine or process, and
sometimes this is made in defiance of what is called "the best shop practice." I recall that a machine
manufacturer was once called into conference on the building of a special machine. The specifications
called for an output of two hundred per hour.
"This is a mistake," said the manufacturer, "you mean two hundred a day—no machine can be forced
to two hundred an hour."
The company officer sent for the man who had designed the machine and they called his attention to
the specification. He said:
"Yes, what about it?"
"It can't be done," said the manufacturer positively, "no machine built will do that—it is out of the
question."
"Out of the question!" exclaimed the engineer, "if you will come down to the main floor you will see
one doing it; we built one to see if it could be done and now we want more like it."
The factory keeps no record of experiments. The foremen and superintendents remember what has
been done. If a certain method has formerly been tried and failed, somebody will remember it—but I
am not particularly anxious for the men to remember what someone else has tried to do in the past, for
then we might quickly accumulate far too many things that could not be done. That is one of the
troubles with extensive records. If you keep on recording all of your failures you will shortly have a
list showing that there is nothing left for you to try—whereas it by no means follows because one man
has failed in a certain method that another man will not succeed.
They told us we could not cast gray iron by our endless chain method and I believe there is a record of
failures. But we are doing it. The man who carried through our work either did not know or paid no
attention to the previous figures. Likewise we were told that it was out of the question to pour the hot
iron directly from the blast furnace into mould. The usual method is to run the iron into pigs, let them
season for a time, and then remelt them for casting. But at the River Rouge plant we are casting
directly from cupolas that are filled from the blast furnaces. Then, too, a record of failures—
particularly if it is a dignified and well-authenticated record—deters a young man from trying. We get
some of our best results from letting fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
None of our men are "experts." We have most unfortunately found it necessary to get rid of a man as
soon as he thinks himself an expert—because no one ever considers himself expert if he really knows
his job. A man who knows a job sees so much more to be done than he has done, that he is always
pressing forward and never gives up an instant of thought to how good and how efficient he is.
Thinking always ahead, thinking always of trying to do more, brings a state of mind in which nothing
is impossible. The moment one gets into the "expert" state of mind a great number of things become
impossible.
I refuse to recognize that there are impossibilities. I cannot discover that any one knows enough about
anything on this earth definitely to say what is and what is not possible. The right kind of experience,
the right kind of technical training, ought to enlarge the mind and reduce the number of impossibilities.
It unfortunately does nothing of the kind. Most technical training and the average of that which we call
experience, provide a record of previous failures and, instead of these failures being taken for what
they are worth, they are taken as absolute bars to progress. If some man, calling himself an authority,
says that this or that cannot be done, then a horde of unthinking followers start the chorus: "It can't be
done."
Take castings. Castings has always been a wasteful process and is so old that it has accumulated many
traditions which make improvements extraordinarily difficult to bring about. I believe one authority on
moulding declared—before we started our experiments—that any man who said he could reduce costs
within half a year wrote himself down as a fraud.
Our foundry used to be much like other foundries. When we cast the first "Model T" cylinders in 1910,
everything in the place was done by hand; shovels and wheelbarrows abounded. The work was then
either skilled or unskilled; we had moulders and we had labourers. Now we have about five per cent.
of thoroughly skilled moulders and core setters, but the remaining 95 per cent. are unskilled, or to put
it more accurately, must be skilled in exactly one operation which the most stupid man can learn
within two days. The moulding is all done by machinery. Each part which we have to cast has a unit or
units of its own—according to the number required in the plan of production. The machinery of the
unit is adapted to the single casting; thus the men in the unit each perform a single operation that is
always the same. A unit consists of an overhead railway to which at intervals are hung little platforms
for the moulds. Without going into technical details, let me say the making of the moulds and the
cores, and the packing of the cores, are done with the work in motion on the platforms. The metal is
poured at another point as the work moves, and by the time the mould in which the metal has been
poured reaches the terminal, it is cool enough to start on its automatic way to cleaning, machining, and
assembling. And the platform is moving around for a new load.
Take the development of the piston-rod assembly. Even under the old plan, this operation took only
three minutes and did not seem to be one to bother about. There were two benches and twenty-eight
men in all; they assembled one hundred seventy-five pistons and rods in a nine-hour day—which
means just five seconds over three minutes each. There was no inspection, and many of the piston and
rod assemblies came back from the motor assembling line as defective. It is a very simple operation.
The workman pushed the pin out of the piston, oiled the pin, slipped the rod in place, put the pin
through the rod and piston, tightened one screw, and opened another screw. That was the whole
operation. The foreman, examining the operation, could not discover why it should take as much as
three minutes. He analyzed the motions with a stop-watch. He found that four hours out of a nine-hour
day were spent in walking. The assembler did not go off anywhere, but he had to shift his feet to gather
in his materials and to push away his finished piece. In the whole task, each man performed six
operations. The foreman devised a new plan; he split the operation into three divisions, put a slide on
the bench and three men on each side of it, and an inspector at the end. Instead of one man performing
the whole operation, one man then performed only one third of the operation—he performed only as
much as he could do without shifting his feet. They cut down the squad from twenty-eight to fourteen
men. The former record for twenty-eight men was one hundred seventy-five assemblies a day. Now
seven men turn out twenty-six hundred assemblies in eight hours. It is not necessary to calculate the
savings there!
Painting the rear axle assembly once gave some trouble. It used to be dipped by hand into a tank of
enamel. This required several handlings and the services of two men. Now one man takes care of it all
on a special machine, designed and built in the factory. The man now merely hangs the assembly on a
moving chain which carries it up over the enamel tank, two levers then thrust thimbles over the ends of
the ladle shaft, the paint tank rises six feet, immerses the axle, returns to position, and the axle goes on
to the drying oven. The whole cycle of operations now takes just thirteen seconds.
The radiator is a complex affair and soldering it used to be a matter of skill. There are ninety-five tubes
in a radiator. Fitting and soldering these tubes in place is by hand a long operation, requiring both skill
and patience. Now it is all done by a machine which will make twelve hundred radiator cores in eight
hours; then they are soldered in place by being carried through a furnace by a conveyor. No tinsmith
work and so no skill are required.
We used to rivet the crank-case arms to the crank-case, using pneumatic hammers which were
supposed to be the latest development. It took six men to hold the hammers and six men to hold the
casings, and the din was terrific. Now an automatic press operated by one man, who does nothing else,
gets through five times as much work in a day as those twelve men did.
In the Piquette plant the cylinder casting traveled four thousand feet in the course of finishing; now it
travels only slightly over three hundred feet.
There is no manual handling of material. There is not a single hand operation. If a machine can be
made automatic, it is made automatic. Not a single operation is ever considered as being done in the
best or cheapest way. At that, only about ten per cent. of our tools are special; the others are regular
machines adjusted to the particular job. And they are placed almost side by side. We put more
machinery per square foot of floor space than any other factory in the world—every foot of space not
used carries an overhead expense. We want none of that waste. Yet there is all the room needed—no
man has too much room and no man has too little room. Dividing and subdividing operations, keeping
the work in motion—those are the keynotes of production. But also it is to be remembered that all the
parts are designed so that they can be most easily made. And the saving? Although the comparison is
not quite fair, it is startling. If at our present rate of production we employed the same number of men
per car that we did when we began in 1903—and those men were only for assembly—we should to-
day require a force of more than two hundred thousand. We have less than fifty thousand men on
automobile production at our highest point of around four thousand cars a day!
CHAPTER VI
MACHINES AND MEN
That which one has to fight hardest against in bringing together a large number of people to do work is
excess organization and consequent red tape. To my mind there is no bent of mind more dangerous
than that which is sometimes described as the "genius for organization." This usually results in the
birth of a great big chart showing, after the fashion of a family tree, how authority ramifies. The tree is
heavy with nice round berries, each of which bears the name of a man or of an office. Every man has a
title and certain duties which are strictly limited by the circumference of his berry.
If a straw boss wants to say something to the general superintendent, his message has to go through the
sub-foreman, the foreman, the department head, and all the assistant superintendents, before, in the
course of time, it reaches the general superintendent. Probably by that time what he wanted to talk
about is already history. It takes about six weeks for the message of a man living in a berry on the
lower left-hand corner of the chart to reach the president or chairman of the board, and if it ever does
reach one of these august officials, it has by that time gathered to itself about a pound of criticisms,
suggestions, and comments. Very few things are ever taken under "official consideration" until long
after the time when they actually ought to have been done. The buck is passed to and fro and all
responsibility is dodged by individuals—following the lazy notion that two heads are better than one.
Now a business, in my way of thinking, is not a machine. It is a collection of people who are brought
together to do work and not to write letters to one another. It is not necessary for any one department
to know what any other department is doing. If a man is doing his work he will not have time to take
up any other work. It is the business of those who plan the entire work to see that all of the
departments are working properly toward the same end. It is not necessary to have meetings to
establish good feeling between individuals or departments. It is not necessary for people to love each
other in order to work together. Too much good fellowship may indeed be a very bad thing, for it may
lead to one man trying to cover up the faults of another. That is bad for both men.
When we are at work we ought to be at work. When we are at play we ought to be at play. There is no
use trying to mix the two. The sole object ought to be to get the work done and to get paid for it. When
the work is done, then the play can come, but not before. And so the Ford factories and enterprises
have no organization, no specific duties attaching to any position, no line of succession or of authority,
very few titles, and no conferences. We have only the clerical help that is absolutely required; we have
no elaborate records of any kind, and consequently no red tape.
We make the individual responsibility complete. The workman is absolutely responsible for his work.
The straw boss is responsible for the workmen under him. The foreman is responsible for his group.
The department head is responsible for the department. The general superintendent is responsible for
the whole factory. Every man has to know what is going on in his sphere. I say "general
superintendent." There is no such formal title. One man is in charge of the factory and has been for
years. He has two men with him, who, without in any way having their duties defined, have taken
particular sections of the work to themselves. With them are about half a dozen other men in the nature
of assistants, but without specific duties. They have all made jobs for themselves—but there are no
limits to their jobs. They just work in where they best fit. One man chases stock and shortages.
Another has grabbed inspection, and so on.
This may seem haphazard, but it is not. A group of men, wholly intent upon getting work done, have
no difficulty in seeing that the work is done. They do not get into trouble about the limits of authority,
because they are not thinking of titles. If they had offices and all that, they would shortly be giving up
their time to office work and to wondering why did they not have a better office than some other
fellow.
Because there are no titles and no limits of authority, there is no question of red tape or going over a
man's head. Any workman can go to anybody, and so established has become this custom, that a
foreman does not get sore if a workman goes over him and directly to the head of the factory. The
workman rarely ever does so, because a foreman knows as well as he knows his own name that if he
has been unjust it will be very quickly found out, and he shall no longer be a foreman. One of the
things that we will not tolerate is injustice of any kind. The moment a man starts to swell with
authority he is discovered, and he goes out, or goes back to a machine. A large amount of labour unrest
comes from the unjust exercise of authority by those in subordinate positions, and I am afraid that in
far too many manufacturing institutions it is really not possible for a workman to get a square deal.
The work and the work alone controls us. That is one of the reasons why we have no titles. Most men
can swing a job, but they are floored by a title. The effect of a title is very peculiar. It has been used
too much as a sign of emancipation from work. It is almost equivalent to a badge bearing the legend:
"This man has nothing to do but regard himself as important and all others as inferior."
Not only is a title often injurious to the wearer, but it has its effect on others as well. There is perhaps
no greater single source of personal dissatisfaction among men than the fact that the title-bearers are
not always the real leaders. Everybody acknowledges a real leader—a man who is fit to plan and
command. And when you find a real leader who bears a title, you will have to inquire of someone else
what his title is. He doesn't boast about it.
Titles in business have been greatly overdone and business has suffered. One of the bad features is the
division of responsibility according to titles, which goes so far as to amount to a removal altogether of
responsibility. Where responsibility is broken up into many small bits and divided among many
departments, each department under its own titular head, who in turn is surrounded by a group bearing
their nice sub-titles, it is difficult to find any one who really feels responsible. Everyone knows what
"passing the buck" means. The game must have originated in industrial organizations where the
departments simply shove responsibility along. The health of every organization depends on every
member—whatever his place—feeling that everything that happens to come to his notice relating to
the welfare of the business is his own job. Railroads have gone to the devil under the eyes of
departments that say:
"Oh, that doesn't come under our department. Department X, 100 miles away, has that in charge."
There used to be a lot of advice given to officials not to hide behind their titles. The very necessity for
the advice showed a condition that needed more than advice to correct it. And the correction is just this
—abolish the titles. A few may be legally necessary; a few may be useful in directing the public how
to do business with the concern, but for the rest the best rule is simple: "Get rid of them."
As a matter of fact, the record of business in general just now is such as to detract very much from the
value of titles. No one would boast of being president of a bankrupt bank. Business on the whole has
not been so skillfully steered as to leave much margin for pride in the steersmen. The men who bear
titles now and are worth anything are forgetting their titles and are down in the foundation of business
looking for the weak spots. They are back again in the places from which they rose—trying to
reconstruct from the bottom up. And when a man is really at work, he needs no title. His work honours
him.
All of our people come into the factory or the offices through the employment departments. As I have
said, we do not hire experts—neither do we hire men on past experiences or for any position other than
the lowest. Since we do not take a man on his past history, we do not refuse him because of his past
history. I never met a man who was thoroughly bad. There is always some good in him—if he gets a
chance. That is the reason we do not care in the least about a man's antecedents—we do not hire a
man's history, we hire the man. If he has been in jail, that is no reason to say that he will be in jail
again. I think, on the contrary, he is, if given a chance, very likely to make a special effort to keep out
of jail. Our employment office does not bar a man for anything he has previously done—he is equally
acceptable whether he has been in Sing Sing or at Harvard and we do not even inquire from which
place he has graduated. All that he needs is the desire to work. If he does not desire to work, it is very
unlikely that he will apply for a position, for it is pretty well understood that a man in the Ford plant
works.
We do not, to repeat, care what a man has been. If he has gone to college he ought to be able to go
ahead faster, but he has to start at the bottom and prove his ability. Every man's future rests solely with
himself. There is far too much loose talk about men being unable to obtain recognition. With us every
man is fairly certain to get the exact recognition he deserves.
Of course, there are certain factors in the desire for recognition which must be reckoned with. The
whole modern industrial system has warped the desire so out of shape that it is now almost an
obsession. There was a time when a man's personal advancement depended entirely and immediately
upon his work, and not upon any one's favor; but nowadays it often depends far too much upon the
individual's good fortune in catching some influential eye. That is what we have successfully fought
against. Men will work with the idea of catching somebody's eye; they will work with the idea that if
they fail to get credit for what they have done, they might as well have done it badly or not have done
it at all. Thus the work sometimes becomes a secondary consideration. The job in hand—the article in
hand, the special kind of service in hand—turns out to be not the principal job. The main work
becomes personal advancement—a platform from which to catch somebody's eye. This habit of
making the work secondary and the recognition primary is unfair to the work. It makes recognition and
credit the real job. And this also has an unfortunate effect on the worker. It encourages a peculiar kind
of ambition which is neither lovely nor productive. It produces the kind of man who imagines that by
"standing in with the boss" he will get ahead. Every shop knows this kind of man. And the worst of it
is there are some things in the present industrial system which make it appear that the game really
pays. Foremen are only human. It is natural that they should be flattered by being made to believe that
they hold the weal or woe of workmen in their hands. It is natural, also, that being open to flattery,
their self-seeking subordinates should flatter them still more to obtain and profit by their favor. That is
why I want as little as possible of the personal element.
It is particularly easy for any man who never knows it all to go forward to a higher position with us.
Some men will work hard but they do not possess the capacity to think and especially to think quickly.
Such men get as far as their ability deserves. A man may, by his industry, deserve advancement, but it
cannot be possibly given him unless he also has a certain element of leadership. This is not a dream
world we are living in. I think that every man in the shaking-down process of our factory eventually
lands about where he belongs.
We are never satisfied with the way that everything is done in any part of the organization; we always
think it ought to be done better and that eventually it will be done better. The spirit of crowding forces
the man who has the qualities for a higher place eventually to get it. He perhaps would not get the
place if at any time the organization—which is a word I do not like to use—became fixed, so that there
would be routine steps and dead men's shoes. But we have so few titles that a man who ought to be
doing something better than he is doing, very soon gets to doing it—he is not restrained by the fact that
there is no position ahead of him "open"—for there are no "positions." We have no cut-and-dried
places—our best men make their places. This is easy enough to do, for there is always work, and when
you think of getting the work done instead of finding a title to fit a man who wants to be promoted,
then there is no difficulty about promotion. The promotion itself is not formal; the man simply finds
himself doing something other than what he was doing and getting more money.
All of our people have thus come up from the bottom. The head of the factory started as a machinist.
The man in charge of the big River Rouge plant began as a patternmaker. Another man overseeing one
of the principal departments started as a sweeper. There is not a single man anywhere in the factory
who did not simply come in off the street. Everything that we have developed has been done by men
who have qualified themselves with us. We fortunately did not inherit any traditions and we are not
founding any. If we have a tradition it is this:
Everything can always be done better than it is being done.

That pressing always to do work better and faster solves nearly every factory problem. A department
gets its standing on its rate of production. The rate of production and the cost of production are distinct
elements. The foremen and superintendents would only be wasting time were they to keep a check on
the costs in their departments. There are certain costs—such as the rate of wages, the overhead, the
price of materials, and the like, which they could not in any way control, so they do not bother about
them. What they can control is the rate of production in their own departments. The rating of a
department is gained by dividing the number of parts produced by the number of hands working.
Every foreman checks his own department daily—he carries the figures always with him. The
superintendent has a tabulation of all the scores; if there is something wrong in a department the output
score shows it at once, the superintendent makes inquiries and the foreman looks alive. A considerable
part of the incentive to better methods is directly traceable to this simple rule-of-thumb method of
rating production. The foreman need not be a cost accountant—he is no better a foreman for being one.
His charges are the machines and the human beings in his department. When they are working at their
best he has performed his service. The rate of his production is his guide. There is no reason for him to
scatter his energies over collateral subjects.
This rating system simply forces a foreman to forget personalities—to forget everything other than the
work in hand. If he should select the people he likes instead of the people who can best do the work,
his department record will quickly show up that fact.
There is no difficulty in picking out men. They pick themselves out because—although one hears a
great deal about the lack of opportunity for advancement—the average workman is more interested in
a steady job than he is in advancement. Scarcely more than five per cent, of those who work for wages,
while they have the desire to receive more money, have also the willingness to accept the additional
responsibility and the additional work which goes with the higher places. Only about twenty-five per
cent. are even willing to be straw bosses, and most of them take that position because it carries with it
more pay than working on a machine. Men of a more mechanical turn of mind, but with no desire for
responsibility, go into the tool-making departments where they receive considerably more pay than in
production proper. But the vast majority of men want to stay put. They want to be led. They want to
have everything done for them and to have no responsibility. Therefore, in spite of the great mass of
men, the difficulty is not to discover men to advance, but men who are willing to be advanced.
The accepted theory is that all people are anxious for advancement, and a great many pretty plans have
been built up from that. I can only say that we do not find that to be the case. The Americans in our
employ do want to go ahead, but they by no means do always want to go clear through to the top. The
foreigners, generally speaking, are content to stay as straw bosses. Why all of this is, I do not know. I
am giving the facts.
As I have said, everyone in the place reserves an open mind as to the way in which every job is being
done. If there is any fixed theory—any fixed rule—it is that no job is being done well enough. The
whole factory management is always open to suggestion, and we have an informal suggestion system
by which any workman can communicate any idea that comes to him and get action on it.
The saving of a cent per piece may be distinctly worth while. A saving of one cent on a part at our
present rate of production represents twelve thousand dollars a year. One cent saved on each part
would amount to millions a year. Therefore, in comparing savings, the calculations are carried out to
the thousandth part of a cent. If the new way suggested shows a saving and the cost of making the
change will pay for itself within a reasonable time—say within three months—the change is made
practically as of course. These changes are by no means limited to improvements which will increase
production or decrease cost. A great many—perhaps most of them—are in the line of making the work
easier. We do not want any hard, man-killing work about the place, and there is now very little of it.
And usually it so works out that adopting the way which is easier on the men also decreases the cost.
There is most intimate connection between decency and good business. We also investigate down to
the last decimal whether it is cheaper to make or to buy a part.
The suggestions come from everywhere. The Polish workmen seem to be the cleverest of all of the
foreigners in making them. One, who could not speak English, indicated that if the tool in his machine
were set at a different angle it might wear longer. As it was it lasted only four or five cuts. He was
right, and a lot of money was saved in grinding. Another Pole, running a drill press, rigged up a little
fixture to save handling the part after drilling. That was adopted generally and a considerable saving
resulted. The men often try out little attachments of their own because, concentrating on one thing,
they can, if they have a mind that way, usually devise some improvement. The cleanliness of a man's
machine also—although cleaning a machine is no part of his duty—is usually an indication of his
intelligence.
Here are some of the suggestions: A proposal that castings be taken from the foundry to the machine
shop on an overhead conveyor saved seventy men in the transport division. There used to be seventeen
men—and this was when production was smaller—taking the burrs off gears, and it was a hard, nasty
job. A man roughly sketched a special machine. His idea was worked out and the machine built. Now
four men have several times the output of the seventeen men—and have no hard work at all to do.
Changing from a solid to a welded rod in one part of the chassis effected an immediate saving of about
one half million a year on a smaller than the present-day production. Making certain tubes out of flat
sheets instead of drawing them in the usual way effected another enormous saving.
The old method of making a certain gear comprised four operations and 12 per cent. of the steel went
into scrap. We use most of our scrap and eventually we will use it all, but that is no reason for not
cutting down on scrap—the mere fact that all waste is not a dead loss is no excuse for permitting
waste. One of the workmen devised a very simple new method for making this gear in which the scrap
was only one per cent. Again, the camshaft has to have heat treatment in order to make the surface
hard; the cam shafts always came out of the heat-treat oven somewhat warped, and even back in 1918,
we employed 37 men just to straighten the shafts. Several of our men experimented for about a year
and finally worked out a new form of oven in which the shafts could not warp. In 1921, with the
production much larger than in 1918, we employed only eight men in the whole operation.
And then there is the pressing to take away the necessity for skill in any job done by any one. The old-
time tool hardener was an expert. He had to judge the heating temperatures. It was a hit-or-miss
operation. The wonder is that he hit so often. The heat treatment in the hardening of steel is highly
important—providing one knows exactly the right heat to apply. That cannot be known by rule-of-
thumb. It has to be measured. We introduced a system by which the man at the furnace has nothing at
all to do with the heat. He does not see the pyrometer—the instrument which registers the temperature.
Coloured electric lights give him his signals.
None of our machines is ever built haphazardly. The idea is investigated in detail before a move is
made. Sometimes wooden models are constructed or again the parts are drawn to full size on a
blackboard. We are not bound by precedent but we leave nothing to luck, and we have yet to build a
machine that will not do the work for which it was designed. About ninety per cent. of all experiments
have been successful.
Whatever expertness in fabrication that has developed has been due to men. I think that if men are
unhampered and they know that they are serving, they will always put all of mind and will into even
the most trivial of tasks.
CHAPTER VII
THE TERROR OF THE MACHINE
Repetitive labour—the doing of one thing over and over again and always in the same way—is a
terrifying prospect to a certain kind of mind. It is terrifying to me. I could not possibly do the same
thing day in and day out, but to other minds, perhaps I might say to the majority of minds, repetitive
operations hold no terrors. In fact, to some types of mind thought is absolutely appalling. To them the
ideal job is one where the creative instinct need not be expressed. The jobs where it is necessary to put
in mind as well as muscle have very few takers—we always need men who like a job because it is
difficult. The average worker, I am sorry to say, wants a job in which he does not have to put forth
much physical exertion—above all, he wants a job in which he does not have to think. Those who have
what might be called the creative type of mind and who thoroughly abhor monotony are apt to imagine
that all other minds are similarly restless and therefore to extend quite unwanted sympathy to the
labouring man who day in and day out performs almost exactly the same operation.
When you come right down to it, most jobs are repetitive. A business man has a routine that he follows
with great exactness; the work of a bank president is nearly all routine; the work of under officers and
clerks in a bank is purely routine. Indeed, for most purposes and most people, it is necessary to
establish something in the way of a routine and to make most motions purely repetitive—otherwise the
individual will not get enough done to be able to live off his own exertions. There is no reason why
any one with a creative mind should be at a monotonous job, for everywhere the need for creative men
is pressing. There will never be a dearth of places for skilled people, but we have to recognize that the
will to be skilled is not general. And even if the will be present, then the courage to go through with
the training is absent. One cannot become skilled by mere wishing.
There are far too many assumptions about what human nature ought to be and not enough research into
what it is. Take the assumption that creative work can be undertaken only in the realm of vision. We
speak of creative "artists" in music, painting, and the other arts. We seemingly limit the creative
functions to productions that may be hung on gallery walls, or played in concert halls, or otherwise
displayed where idle and fastidious people gather to admire each other's culture. But if a man wants a
field for vital creative work, let him come where he is dealing with higher laws than those of sound, or
line, or colour; let him come where he may deal with the laws of personality. We want artists in
industrial relationship. We want masters in industrial method—both from the standpoint of the
producer and the product. We want those who can mould the political, social, industrial, and moral
mass into a sound and shapely whole. We have limited the creative faculty too much and have used it
for too trivial ends. We want men who can create the working design for all that is right and good and
desirable in our life. Good intentions plus well-thought-out working designs can be put into practice
and can be made to succeed. It is possible to increase the well-being of the workingman—not by
having him do less work, but by aiding him to do more. If the world will give its attention and interest
and energy to the making of plans that will profit the other fellow as he is, then such plans can be
established on a practical working basis. Such plans will endure—and they will be far the most
profitable both in human and financial values. What this generation needs is a deep faith, a profound
conviction in the practicability of righteousness, justice, and humanity in industry. If we cannot have
these qualities, then we were better off without industry. Indeed, if we cannot get those qualities, the
days of industry are numbered. But we can get them. We are getting them.
If a man cannot earn his keep without the aid of machinery, is it benefiting him to withhold that
machinery because attendance upon it may be monotonous? And let him starve? Or is it better to put
him in the way of a good living? Is a man the happier for starving? If he is the happier for using a
machine to less than its capacity, is he happier for producing less than he might and consequently
getting less than his share of the world's goods in exchange?
I have not been able to discover that repetitive labour injures a man in any way. I have been told by
parlour experts that repetitive labour is soul—as well as body—destroying, but that has not been the
result of our investigations. There was one case of a man who all day long did little but step on a
treadle release. He thought that the motion was making him one-sided; the medical examination did
not show that he had been affected but, of course, he was changed to another job that used a different
set of muscles. In a few weeks he asked for his old job again. It would seem reasonable to imagine that
going through the same set of motions daily for eight hours would produce an abnormal body, but we
have never had a case of it. We shift men whenever they ask to be shifted and we should like regularly
to change them—that would be entirely feasible if only the men would have it that way. They do not
like changes which they do not themselves suggest. Some of the operations are undoubtedly
monotonous—so monotonous that it seems scarcely possible that any man would care to continue long
at the same job. Probably the most monotonous task in the whole factory is one in which a man picks
up a gear with a steel hook, shakes it in a vat of oil, then turns it into a basket. The motion never
varies. The gears come to him always in exactly the same place, he gives each one the same number of
shakes, and he drops it into a basket which is always in the same place. No muscular energy is
required, no intelligence is required. He does little more than wave his hands gently to and fro—the
steel rod is so light. Yet the man on that job has been doing it for eight solid years. He has saved and
invested his money until now he has about forty thousand dollars—and he stubbornly resists every
attempt to force him into a better job!
The most thorough research has not brought out a single case of a man's mind being twisted or
deadened by the work. The kind of mind that does not like repetitive work does not have to stay in it.
The work in each department is classified according to its desirability and skill into Classes "A," "B,"
and "C," each class having anywhere from ten to thirty different operations. A man comes directly
from the employment office to "Class C." As he gets better he goes into "Class B," and so on into
"Class A," and out of "Class A" into tool making or some supervisory capacity. It is up to him to place
himself. If he stays in production it is because he likes it.
In a previous chapter I noted that no one applying for work is refused on account of physical condition.
This policy went into effect on January 12, 1914, at the time of setting the minimum wage at five
dollars a day and the working day at eight hours. It carried with it the further condition that no one
should be discharged on account of physical condition, except, of course, in the case of contagious
disease. I think that if an industrial institution is to fill its whole role, it ought to be possible for a cross-
section of its employees to show about the same proportions as a cross-section of a society in general.
We have always with us the maimed and the halt. There is a most generous disposition to regard all of
these people who are physically incapacitated for labour as a charge on society and to support them by
charity. There are cases where I imagine that the support must be by charity—as, for instance, an idiot.
But those cases are extraordinarily rare, and we have found it possible, among the great number of
different tasks that must be performed somewhere in the company, to find an opening for almost any
one and on the basis of production. The blind man or cripple can, in the particular place to which he is
assigned, perform just as much work and receive exactly the same pay as a wholly able-bodied man
would. We do not prefer cripples—but we have demonstrated that they can earn full wages.
It would be quite outside the spirit of what we are trying to do, to take on men because they were
crippled, pay them a lower wage, and be content with a lower output. That might be directly helping
the men but it would not be helping them in the best way. The best way is always the way by which
they can be put on a productive par with able-bodied men. I believe that there is very little occasion for
charity in this world—that is, charity in the sense of making gifts. Most certainly business and charity
cannot be combined; the purpose of a factory is to produce, and it ill serves the community in general
unless it does produce to the utmost of its capacity. We are too ready to assume without investigation
that the full possession of faculties is a condition requisite to the best performance of all jobs. To
discover just what was the real situation, I had all of the different jobs in the factory classified to the
kind of machine and work—whether the physical labour involved was light, medium, or heavy;
whether it were a wet or a dry job, and if not, with what kind of fluid; whether it were clean or dirty;
near an oven or a furnace; the condition of the air; whether one or both hands had to be used; whether
the employee stood or sat down at his work; whether it was noisy or quiet; whether it required
accuracy; whether the light was natural or artificial; the number of pieces that had to be handled per
hour; the weight of the material handled; and the description of the strain upon the worker. It turned
out at the time of the inquiry that there were then 7,882 different jobs in the factory. Of these, 949
were classified as heavy work requiring strong, able-bodied, and practically physically perfect men;
3,338 required men of ordinary physical development and strength. The remaining 3,595 jobs were
disclosed as requiring no physical exertion and could be performed by the slightest, weakest sort of
men. In fact, most of them could be satisfactorily filled by women or older children. The lightest jobs
were again classified to discover how many of them required the use of full faculties, and we found
that 670 could be filled by legless men, 2,637 by one-legged men, 2 by armless men, 715 by one-
armed men, and 10 by blind men. Therefore, out of 7,882 kinds of jobs, 4,034—although some of
them required strength—did not require full physical capacity. That is, developed industry can provide
wage work for a higher average of standard men than are ordinarily included in any normal
community. If the jobs in any one industry or, say, any one factory, were analyzed as ours have been
analyzed, the proportion might be very different, yet I am quite sure that if work is sufficiently
subdivided—subdivided to the point of highest economy—there will be no dearth of places in which
the physically incapacitated can do a man's job and get a man's wage. It is economically most wasteful
to accept crippled men as charges and then to teach them trivial tasks like the weaving of baskets or
some other form of unremunerative hand labour, in the hope, not of aiding them to make a living, but
of preventing despondency.
When a man is taken on by the Employment Department, the theory is to put him into a job suited to
his condition. If he is already at work and he does not seem able to perform the work, or if he does not
like his work, he is given a transfer card, which he takes up to the transfer department, and after an
examination he is tried out in some other work more suited to his condition or disposition. Those who
are below the ordinary physical standards are just as good workers, rightly placed, as those who are
above. For instance, a blind man was assigned to the stock department to count bolts and nuts for
shipment to branch establishments. Two other able-bodied men were already employed on this work.
In two days the foreman sent a note to the transfer department releasing the able-bodied men because
the blind man was able to do not only his own work but also the work that had formerly been done by
the sound men.
This salvage can be carried further. It is usually taken for granted that when a man is injured he is
simply out of the running and should be paid an allowance. But there is always a period of
convalescence, especially in fracture cases, where the man is strong enough to work, and, indeed, by
that time usually anxious to work, for the largest possible accident allowance can never be as great as a
man's wage. If it were, then a business would simply have an additional tax put upon it, and that tax
would show up in the cost of the product. There would be less buying of the product and therefore less
work for somebody. That is an inevitable sequence that must always be borne in mind.
We have experimented with bedridden men—men who were able to sit up. We put black oilcloth
covers or aprons over the beds and set the men to work screwing nuts on small bolts. This is a job that
has to be done by hand and on which fifteen or twenty men are kept busy in the Magneto Department.
The men in the hospital could do it just as well as the men in the shop and they were able to receive
their regular wages. In fact, their production was about 20 per cent., I believe, above the usual shop
production. No man had to do the work unless he wanted to. But they all wanted to. It kept time from
hanging on their hands. They slept and ate better and recovered more rapidly.
No particular consideration has to be given to deaf-and-dumb employees. They do their work one
hundred per cent. The tubercular employees—and there are usually about a thousand of them—mostly
work in the material salvage department. Those cases which are considered contagious work together
in an especially constructed shed. The work of all of them is largely out of doors.
At the time of the last analysis of employed, there were 9,563 sub-standard men. Of these, 123 had
crippled or amputated arms, forearms, or hands. One had both hands off. There were 4 totally blind
men, 207 blind in one eye, 253 with one eye nearly blind, 37 deaf and dumb, 60 epileptics, 4 with both
legs or feet missing, 234 with one foot or leg missing. The others had minor impediments.
The length of time required to become proficient in the various occupations is about as follows: 43 per
cent. of all the jobs require not over one day of training; 36 per cent. require from one day to one
week; 6 per cent. require from one to two weeks; 14 per cent. require from one month to one year; one
per cent. require from one to six years. The last jobs require great skill—as in tool making and die
sinking.
The discipline throughout the plant is rigid. There are no petty rules, and no rules the justice of which
can reasonably be disputed. The injustice of arbitrary discharge is avoided by confining the right of
discharge to the employment manager, and he rarely exercises it. The year 1919 is the last on which
statistics were kept. In that year 30,155 changes occurred. Of those 10,334 were absent more than ten
days without notice and therefore dropped. Because they refused the job assigned or, without giving
cause, demanded a transfer, 3,702 were let go. A refusal to learn English in the school provided
accounted for 38 more; 108 enlisted; about 3,000 were transferred to other plants. Going home, going
into farming or business accounted for about the same number. Eighty-two women were discharged
because their husbands were working—we do not employ married women whose husbands have jobs.
Out of the whole lot only 80 were flatly discharged and the causes were: Misrepresentation, 56; by
order of Educational Department, 20; and undesirable, 4.
We expect the men to do what they are told. The organization is so highly specialized and one part is
so dependent upon another that we could not for a moment consider allowing men to have their own
way. Without the most rigid discipline we would have the utmost confusion. I think it should not be
otherwise in industry. The men are there to get the greatest possible amount of work done and to
receive the highest possible pay. If each man were permitted to act in his own way, production would
suffer and therefore pay would suffer. Any one who does not like to work in our way may always
leave. The company's conduct toward the men is meant to be exact and impartial. It is naturally to the
interest both of the foremen and of the department heads that the releases from their departments
should be few. The workman has a full chance to tell his story if he has been unjustly treated—he has
full recourse. Of course, it is inevitable that injustices occur. Men are not always fair with their fellow
workmen. Defective human nature obstructs our good intentions now and then. The foreman does not
always get the idea, or misapplies it—but the company's intentions are as I have stated, and we use
every means to have them understood.
It is necessary to be most insistent in the matter of absences. A man may not come or go as he pleases;
he may always apply for leave to the foreman, but if he leaves without notice, then, on his return, the
reasons for his absence are carefully investigated and are sometimes referred to the Medical
Department. If his reasons are good, he is permitted to resume work. If they are not good he may be
discharged. In hiring a man the only data taken concerns his name, his address, his age, whether he is
married or single, the number of his dependents, whether he has ever worked for the Ford Motor
Company, and the condition of his sight and his hearing. No questions are asked concerning what the
man has previously done, but we have what we call the "Better Advantage Notice," by which a man
who has had a trade before he came to us files a notice with the employment department stating what
the trade was. In this way, when we need specialists of any kind, we can get them right out of
production. This is also one of the avenues by which tool makers and moulders quickly reach the
higher positions. I once wanted a Swiss watch maker. The cards turned one up—he was running a drill
press. The Heat Treat department wanted a skilled firebrick layer. He also was found on a drill press—
he is now a general inspector.
There is not much personal contact—the men do their work and go home—a factory is not a drawing
room. But we try to have justice and, while there may be little in the way of hand shaking—we have
no professional hand shakers—also we try to prevent opportunity for petty personalities. We have so
many departments that the place is almost a world in itself—every kind of man can find a place
somewhere in it. Take fighting between men. Men will fight, and usually fighting is a cause for
discharge on the spot. We find that does not help the fighters—it merely gets them out of our sight. So
the foremen have become rather ingenious in devising punishments that will not take anything away
from the man's family and which require no time at all to administer.
One point that is absolutely essential to high capacity, as well as to humane production, is a clean,
well-lighted and well-ventilated factory. Our machines are placed very close together—every foot of
floor space in the factory carries, of course, the same overhead charge. The consumer must pay the
extra overhead and the extra transportation involved in having machines even six inches farther apart
than they have to be. We measure on each job the exact amount of room that a man needs; he must not
be cramped—that would be waste. But if he and his machine occupy more space than is required, that
also is waste. This brings our machines closer together than in probably any other factory in the world.
To a stranger they may seem piled right on top of one another, but they are scientifically arranged, not
only in the sequence of operations, but to give every man and every machine every square inch that he
requires and, if possible, not a square inch, and certainly not a square foot, more than he requires. Our
factory buildings are not intended to be used as parks. The close placing requires a maximum of
safeguards and ventilation.
Machine safeguarding is a subject all of itself. We do not consider any machine—no matter how
efficiently it may turn out its work—as a proper machine unless it is absolutely safe. We have no
machines that we consider unsafe, but even at that a few accidents will happen. Every accident, no
matter how trivial, is traced back by a skilled man employed solely for that purpose, and a study is
made of the machine to make that same accident in the future impossible.
When we put up the older buildings, we did not understand so much about ventilation as we do to-day.
In all the later buildings, the supporting columns are made hollow and through them the bad air is
pumped out and the good air introduced. A nearly even temperature is kept everywhere the year round
and, during daylight, there is nowhere the necessity for artificial light. Something like seven hundred
men are detailed exclusively to keeping the shops clean, the windows washed, and all of the paint
fresh. The dark corners which invite expectoration are painted white. One cannot have morale without
cleanliness. We tolerate makeshift cleanliness no more than makeshift methods.
No reason exists why factory work should be dangerous. If a man has worked too hard or through too
long hours he gets into a mental state that invites accidents. Part of the work of preventing accidents is
to avoid this mental state; part is to prevent carelessness, and part is to make machinery absolutely
fool-proof. The principal causes of accidents as they are grouped by the experts are:
(1) Defective structures; (2) defective machines; (3) insufficient room; (4) absence of safeguards; (5)
unclean conditions; (6) bad lights; (7) bad air; (8) unsuitable clothing; (9) carelessness; (10) ignorance;
(11) mental condition; (12) lack of cooperation.
The questions of defective structures, defective machinery, insufficient room, unclean conditions, bad
light, bad air, the wrong mental condition, and the lack of cooperation are easily disposed of. None of
the men work too hard. The wages settle nine tenths of the mental problems and construction gets rid
of the others. We have then to guard against unsuitable clothing, carelessness, and ignorance, and to
make everything we have fool-proof. This is more difficult where we have belts. In all of our new
construction, each machine has its individual electric motor, but in the older construction we had to use
belts. Every belt is guarded. Over the automatic conveyors are placed bridges so that no man has to
cross at a dangerous point. Wherever there is a possibility of flying metal, the workman is required to
wear goggles and the chances are further reduced by surrounding the machine with netting. Around hot
furnaces we have railings. There is nowhere an open part of a machine in which clothing can be
caught. All the aisles are kept clear. The starting switches of draw presses are protected by big red tags
which have to be removed before the switch can be turned—this prevents the machine being started
thoughtlessly. Workmen will wear unsuitable clothing—ties that may be caught in a pulley, flowing
sleeves, and all manner of unsuitable articles. The bosses have to watch for that, and they catch most
of the offenders. New machines are tested in every way before they are permitted to be installed. As a
result we have practically no serious accidents.
Industry needs not exact a human toll.
CHAPTER VIII
WAGES
There is nothing to running a business by custom—to saying: "I pay the going rate of wages." The
same man would not so easily say: "I have nothing better or cheaper to sell than any one has." No
manufacturer in his right mind would contend that buying only the cheapest materials is the way to
make certain of manufacturing the best article. Then why do we hear so much talk about the
"liquidation of labour" and the benefits that will flow to the country from cutting wages—which means
only the cutting of buying power and the curtailing of the home market? What good is industry if it be
so unskillfully managed as not to return a living to everyone concerned? No question is more
important than that of wages—most of the people of the country live on wages. The scale of their
living—the rate of their wages—determines the prosperity of the country.
Throughout all the Ford industries we now have a minimum wage of six dollars a day; we used to have
a minimum of five dollars; before that we paid whatever it was necessary to pay. It would be bad
morals to go back to the old market rate of paying—but also it would be the worst sort of bad business.
First get at the relationships. It is not usual to speak of an employee as a partner, and yet what else is
he? Whenever a man finds the management of a business too much for his own time or strength, he
calls in assistants to share the management with him. Why, then, if a man finds the production part of a
business too much for his own two hands should he deny the title of "partner" to those who come in
and help him produce? Every business that employs more than one man is a kind of partnership. The
moment a man calls for assistance in his business—even though the assistant be but a boy—that
moment he has taken a partner. He may himself be sole owner of the resources of the business and sole
director of its operations, but only while he remains sole manager and sole producer can he claim
complete independence. No man is independent as long as he has to depend on another man to help
him. It is a reciprocal relation—the boss is the partner of his worker, the worker is partner of his boss.
And such being the case, it is useless for one group or the other to assume that it is the one
indispensable unit. Both are indispensable. The one can become unduly assertive only at the expense
of the other—and eventually at its own expense as well. It is utterly foolish for Capital or for Labour to
think of themselves as groups. They are partners. When they pull and haul against each other—they
simply injure the organization in which they are partners and from which both draw support.
It ought to be the employer's ambition, as leader, to pay better wages than any similar line of business,
and it ought to be the workman's ambition to make this possible. Of course there are men in all shops
who seem to believe that if they do their best, it will be only for the employer's benefit—and not at all
for their own. It is a pity that such a feeling should exist. But it does exist and perhaps it has some
justification. If an employer urges men to do their best, and the men learn after a while that their best
does not bring any reward, then they naturally drop back into "getting by." But if they see the fruits of
hard work in their pay envelope—proof that harder work means higher pay—then also they begin to
learn that they are a part of the business, and that its success depends on them and their success
depends on it.
"What ought the employer to pay?"—"What ought the employee to receive?" These are but minor
questions. The basic question is "What can the business stand?" Certainly no business can stand outgo
that exceeds its income. When you pump water out of a well at a faster rate than the water flows in, the
well goes dry. And when the well runs dry, those who depend on it go thirsty. And if, perchance, they
imagine they can pump one well dry and then jump to some other well, it is only a matter of time when
all the wells will be dry. There is now a widespread demand for more justly divided rewards, but it
must be recognized that there are limits to rewards. The business itself sets the limits. You cannot
distribute $150,000 out of a business that brings in only $100,000. The business limits the wages, but
does anything limit the business? The business limits itself by following bad precedents.
If men, instead of saying "the employer ought to do thus-and-so," would say, "the business ought to be
so stimulated and managed that it can do thus-and-so," they would get somewhere. Because only the
business can pay wages. Certainly the employer cannot, unless the business warrants. But if that
business does warrant higher wages and the employer refuses, what is to be done? As a rule a business
means the livelihood of too many men, to be tampered with. It is criminal to assassinate a business to
which large numbers of men have given their labours and to which they have learned to look as their
field of usefulness and their source of livelihood. Killing the business by a strike or a lockout does not
help. The employer can gain nothing by looking over the employees and asking himself, "How little
can I get them to take?" Nor the employee by glaring back and asking, "How much can I force him to
give?" Eventually both will have to turn to the business and ask, "How can this industry be made safe
and profitable, so that it will be able to provide a sure and comfortable living for all of us?"
But by no means all employers or all employees will think straight. The habit of acting shortsightedly
is a hard one to break. What can be done? Nothing. No rules or laws will effect the changes. But
enlightened self-interest will. It takes a little while for enlightenment to spread. But spread it must, for
the concern in which both employer and employees work to the same end of service is bound to forge
ahead in business.
What do we mean by high wages, anyway?
We mean a higher wage than was paid ten months or ten years ago. We do not mean a higher wage
than ought to be paid. Our high wages of to-day may be low wages ten years from now.
If it is right for the manager of a business to try to make it pay larger dividends, it is quite as right that
he should try to make it pay higher wages. But it is not the manager of the business who pays the high
wages. Of course, if he can and will not, then the blame is on him. But he alone can never make high
wages possible. High wages cannot be paid unless the workmen earn them. Their labour is the
productive factor. It is not the only productive factor—poor management can waste labour and
material and nullify the efforts of labour. Labour can nullify the results of good management. But in a
partnership of skilled management and honest labour, it is the workman who makes high wages
possible. He invests his energy and skill, and if he makes an honest, wholehearted investment, high
wages ought to be his reward. Not only has he earned them, but he has had a big part in creating them.
It ought to be clear, however, that the high wage begins down in the shop. If it is not created there it
cannot get into pay envelopes. There will never be a system invented which will do away with the
necessity of work. Nature has seen to that. Idle hands and minds were never intended for any one of us.
Work is our sanity, our self-respect, our salvation. So far from being a curse, work is the greatest
blessing. Exact social justice flows only out of honest work. The man who contributes much should
take away much. Therefore no element of charity is present in the paying of wages. The kind of
workman who gives the business the best that is in him is the best kind of workman a business can
have. And he cannot be expected to do this indefinitely without proper recognition of his contribution.
The man who comes to the day's job feeling that no matter how much he may give, it will not yield
him enough of a return to keep him beyond want, is not in shape to do his day's work. He is anxious
and worried, and it all reacts to the detriment of his work.
But if a man feels that his day's work is not only supplying his basic need, but is also giving him a
margin of comfort and enabling him to give his boys and girls their opportunity and his wife some
pleasure in life, then his job looks good to him and he is free to give it of his best. This is a good thing
for him and a good thing for the business. The man who does not get a certain satisfaction out of his
day's work is losing the best part of his pay.
For the day's work is a great thing—a very great thing! It is at the very foundation of the world; it is
the basis of our self-respect. And the employer ought constantly to put in a harder day's work than any
of his men. The employer who is seriously trying to do his duty in the world must be a hard worker.
He cannot say, "I have so many thousand men working for me." The fact of the matter is that so many
thousand men have him working for them—and the better they work the busier they keep him
disposing of their products. Wages and salaries are in fixed amounts, and this must be so, in order to
have a basis to figure on. Wages and salaries are a sort of profit-sharing fixed in advance, but it often
happens that when the business of the year is closed, it is discovered that more can be paid. And then
more ought to be paid. When we are all in the business working together, we all ought to have some
share in the profits—by way of a good wage, or salary, or added compensation. And that is beginning
now quite generally to be recognized.
There is now a definite demand that the human side of business be elevated to a position of equal
importance with the material side. And that is going to come about. It is just a question whether it is
going to be brought about wisely—in a way that will conserve the material side which now sustains us,
or unwisely and in such a way as shall take from us all the benefit of the work of the past years.
Business represents our national livelihood, it reflects our economic progress, and gives us our place
among other nations. We do not want to jeopardize that. What we want is a better recognition of the
human element in business. And surely it can be achieved without dislocation, without loss to any one,
indeed with an increase of benefit to every human being. And the secret of it all is in a recognition of
human partnership. Until each man is absolutely sufficient unto himself, needing the services of no
other human being in any capacity whatever, we shall never get beyond the need of partnership.
Such are the fundamental truths of wages. They are partnership distributions.
When can a wage be considered adequate? How much of a living is reasonably to be expected from
work? Have you ever considered what a wage does or ought to do? To say that it should pay the cost
of living is to say almost nothing. The cost of living depends largely upon the efficiency of production
and transportation; and the efficiency of these is the sum of the efficiencies of the management and the
workers. Good work, well managed, ought to result in high wages and low living costs. If we attempt
to regulate wages on living costs, we get nowhere. The cost of living is a result and we cannot expect
to keep a result constant if we keep altering the factors which produce the result. When we try to
regulate wages according to the cost of living, we are imitating a dog chasing his tail. And, anyhow,
who is competent to say just what kind of living we shall base the costs on? Let us broaden our view
and see what a wage is to the workmen—and what it ought to be.
The wage carries all the worker's obligations outside the shop; it carries all that is necessary in the way
of service and management inside the shop. The day's productive work is the most valuable mine of
wealth that has ever been opened. Certainly it ought to bear not less than all the worker's outside
obligations. And certainly it ought to be made to take care of the worker's sunset days when labour is
no longer possible to him—and should be no longer necessary. And if it is made to do even these,
industry will have to be adjusted to a schedule of production, distribution, and reward, which will stop
the leaks into the pockets of men who do not assist in production. In order to create a system which
shall be as independent of the good-will of benevolent employers as of the ill-will of selfish ones, we
shall have to find a basis in the actual facts of life itself.
It costs just as much physical strength to turn out a day's work when wheat is $1 a bushel, as when
wheat is $2.50 a bushel. Eggs may be 12 cents a dozen or 90 cents a dozen. What difference does it
make in the units of energy a man uses in a productive day's work? If only the man himself were
concerned, the cost of his maintenance and the profit he ought to have would be a simple matter. But
he is not just an individual. He is a citizen, contributing to the welfare of the nation. He is a
householder. He is perhaps a father with children who must be reared to usefulness on what he is able
to earn. We must reckon with all these facts. How are you going to figure the contribution of the home
to the day's work? You pay the man for his work, but how much does that work owe to his home?
How much to his position as a citizen? How much to his position as a father? The man does the work
in the shop, but his wife does the work in the home. The shop must pay them both. On what system of
figuring is the home going to find its place on the cost sheets of the day's work? Is the man's own
livelihood to be regarded as the "cost"? And is his ability to have a home and family the "profit"? Is
the profit on a day's work to be computed on a cash basis only, measured by the amount a man has left
over after his own and his family's wants are all supplied? Or are all these relationships to be
considered strictly under head of cost, and the profit to be computed entirely outside of them? That is,
after having supported himself and family, clothed them, housed them, educated them, given them the
privileges incident to their standard of living, ought there to be provision made for still something
more in the way of savings profit? And are all properly chargeable to the day's work? I think they are.
Otherwise, we have the hideous prospect of little children and their mothers being forced out to work.
These are questions which call for accurate observation and computation. Perhaps there is no one item
connected with our economic life that would surprise us more than a knowledge of just what burdens
the day's work. It is perhaps possible accurately to determine—albeit with considerable interference
with the day's work itself—how much energy the day's work takes out of a man. But it is not at all
possible accurately to determine how much it will require to put back that energy into him against the
next day's demands. Nor is it possible to determine how much of that expended energy he will never
be able to get back at all. Economics has never yet devised a sinking fund for the replacement of the
strength of a worker. It is possible to set up a kind of sinking fund in the form of old-age pensions. But
pensions do not attend to the profit which each day's labour ought to yield in order to take care of all of
life's overhead, of all physical losses, and of the inevitable deterioration of the manual worker.
The best wages that have up to date ever been paid are not nearly as high as they ought to be. Business
is not yet sufficiently well organized and its objectives are not yet sufficiently clear to make it possible
to pay more than a fraction of the wages that ought to be paid. That is part of the work we have before
us. It does not help toward a solution to talk about abolishing the wage system and substituting
communal ownership. The wage system is the only one that we have, under which contributions to
production can be rewarded according to their worth. Take away the wage measure and we shall have
universal injustice. Perfect the system and we may have universal justice.
I have learned through the years a good deal about wages. I believe in the first place that, all other
considerations aside, our own sales depend in a measure upon the wages we pay. If we can distribute
high wages, then that money is going to be spent and it will serve to make storekeepers and
distributors and manufacturers and workers in other lines more prosperous and their prosperity will be
reflected in our sales. Country-wide high wages spell country-wide prosperity, provided, however, the
higher wages are paid for higher production. Paying high wages and lowering production is starting
down the incline toward dull business.
It took us some time to get our bearings on wages, and it was not until we had gone thoroughly into
production on "Model T," that it was possible to figure out what wages ought to be. Before then we
had had some profit sharing. We had at the end of each year, for some years past, divided a percentage
of our earnings with the employees. For instance, as long ago as 1909 we distributed eighty thousand
dollars on the basis of years of service. A one-year man received 5 per cent. of his year's wages; a two-
year man, 7-1/2 per cent., and a three-year man, 10 per cent. The objection to that plan was that it had
no direct connection with the day's work. A man did not get his share until long after his work was
done and then it came to him almost in the way of a present. It is always unfortunate to have wages
tinged with charity.
And then, too, the wages were not scientifically adjusted to the jobs. The man in job "A" might get one
rate and the man in job "B" a higher rate, while as a matter of fact job "A" might require more skill or
exertion than job "B." A great deal of inequity creeps into wage rates unless both the employer and the
employee know that the rate paid has been arrived at by something better than a guess. Therefore,
starting about 1913 we had time studies made of all the thousands of operations in the shops. By a time
study it is possible theoretically to determine what a man's output should be. Then, making large
allowances, it is further possible to get at a satisfactory standard output for a day, and, taking into
consideration the skill, to arrive at a rate which will express with fair accuracy the amount of skill and
exertion that goes into a job—and how much is to be expected from the man in the job in return for the
wage. Without scientific study the employer does not know why he is paying a wage and the worker
does not know why he is getting it. On the time figures all of the jobs in our factory were standardized
and rates set.
We do not have piece work. Some of the men are paid by the day and some are paid by the hour, but in
practically every case there is a required standard output below which a man is not expected to fall.
Were it otherwise, neither the workman nor ourselves would know whether or not wages were being
earned. There must be a fixed day's work before a real wage can be paid. Watchmen are paid for
presence. Workmen are paid for work.
Having these facts in hand we announced and put into operation in January, 1914, a kind of profit-
sharing plan in which the minimum wage for any class of work and under certain conditions was five
dollars a day. At the same time we reduced the working day to eight hours—it had been nine—and the
week to forty-eight hours. This was entirely a voluntary act. All of our wage rates have been voluntary.
It was to our way of thinking an act of social justice, and in the last analysis we did it for our own
satisfaction of mind. There is a pleasure in feeling that you have made others happy—that you have
lessened in some degree the burdens of your fellow-men—that you have provided a margin out of
which may be had pleasure and saving. Good-will is one of the few really important assets of life. A
determined man can win almost anything that he goes after, but unless, in his getting, he gains good
will he has not profited much.
There was, however, no charity in any way involved. That was not generally understood. Many
employers thought we were just making the announcement because we were prosperous and wanted
advertising and they condemned us because we were upsetting standards—violating the custom of
paying a man the smallest amount he would take. There is nothing to such standards and customs.
They have to be wiped out. Some day they will be. Otherwise, we cannot abolish poverty. We made
the change not merely because we wanted to pay higher wages and thought we could pay them. We
wanted to pay these wages so that the business would be on a lasting foundation. We were not
distributing anything—we were building for the future. A low wage business is always insecure.
Probably few industrial announcements have created a more world-wide comment than did this one,
and hardly any one got the facts quite right. Workmen quite generally believed that they were going to
get five dollars a day, regardless of what work they did.
The facts were somewhat different from the general impression. The plan was to distribute profits, but
instead of waiting until the profits had been earned—to approximate them in advance and to add them,
under certain conditions, to the wages of those persons who had been in the employ of the company
for six months or more. It was classified participation among three classes of employees:
(1) Married men living with and taking good care of their families.
(2) Single men over twenty-two years of age who are of proved thrifty habits.
(3) Young men under twenty-two years of age, and women who are the sole support of some next of
kin.
A man was first to be paid his just wages—which were then on an average of about fifteen per cent.
above the usual market wage. He was then eligible to a certain profit. His wages plus his profit were
calculated to give a minimum daily income of five dollars. The profit sharing rate was divided on an
hour basis and was credited to the hourly wage rate, so as to give those receiving the lowest hourly rate
the largest proportion of profits. It was paid every two weeks with the wages. For example, a man who
received thirty-four cents an hour had a profit rate of twenty-eight and one half cents an hour—which
would give him a daily income of five dollars. A man receiving fifty-four cents an hour would have a
profit rate of twenty-one cents an hour—which would give him a daily income of six dollars.
It was a sort of prosperity-sharing plan. But on conditions. The man and his home had to come up to
certain standards of cleanliness and citizenship. Nothing paternal was intended!—a certain amount of
paternalism did develop, and that is one reason why the whole plan and the social welfare department
were readjusted. But in the beginning the idea was that there should be a very definite incentive to
better living and that the very best incentive was a money premium on proper living. A man who is
living aright will do his work aright. And then, too, we wanted to avoid the possibility of lowering the
standard of work through an increased wage. It was demonstrated in war time that too quickly
increasing a man's pay sometimes increases only his cupidity and therefore decreases his earning
power. If, in the beginning, we had simply put the increase in the pay envelopes, then very likely the
work standards would have broken down. The pay of about half the men was doubled in the new plan;
it might have been taken as "easy money." The thought of easy money breaks down work. There is a
danger in too rapidly raising the pay of any man—whether he previously received one dollar or one
hundred dollars a day. In fact, if the salary of a hundred-dollar-a-day man were increased overnight to
three hundred dollars a day he would probably make a bigger fool of himself than the working man
whose pay is increased from one dollar to three dollars an hour. The man with the larger amount of
money has larger opportunity to make a fool of himself.
In this first plan the standards insisted upon were not petty—although sometimes they may have been
administered in a petty fashion. We had about fifty investigators in the Social Department; the standard
of common sense among them was very high indeed, but it is impossible to assemble fifty men equally
endowed with common sense. They erred at times—one always hears about the errors. It was expected
that in order to receive the bonus married men should live with and take proper care of their families.
We had to break up the evil custom among many of the foreign workers of taking in boarders—of
regarding their homes as something to make money out of rather than as a place to live in. Boys under
eighteen received a bonus if they supported the next of kin. Single men who lived wholesomely
shared. The best evidence that the plan was essentially beneficial is the record. When the plan went
into effect, 60 per cent. of the workers immediately qualified to share; at the end of six months 78 per
cent. were sharing, and at the end of one year 87 per cent. Within a year and one half only a fraction of
one per cent. failed to share.
The large wage had other results. In 1914, when the first plan went into effect, we had 14,000
employees and it had been necessary to hire at the rate of about 53,000 a year in order to keep a
constant force of 14,000. In 1915 we had to hire only 6,508 men and the majority of these new men
were taken on because of the growth of the business. With the old turnover of labour and our present
force we should have to hire at the rate of nearly 200,000 men a year—which would be pretty nearly
an impossible proposition. Even with the minimum of instruction that is required to master almost any
job in our place, we cannot take on a new staff each morning, or each week, or each month; for,
although a man may qualify for acceptable work at an acceptable rate of speed within two or three
days, he will be able to do more after a year's experience than he did at the beginning. The matter of
labour turnover has not since bothered us; it is rather hard to give exact figures because when we are
not running to capacity, we rotate some of the men in order to distribute the work among greatest
number. This makes it hard to distinguish between the voluntary and involuntary exits. To-day we
keep no figures; we now think so little of our turnover that we do not bother to keep records. As far as
we know the turnover is somewhere between 3 per cent. and 6 per cent. a month.
We have made changes in the system, but we have not deviated from this principle:
If you expect a man to give his time and energy, fix his wages so that he will have no financial
worries. It pays. Our profits, after paying good wages and a bonus—which bonus used to run around
ten millions a year before we changed the system—show that paying good wages is the most profitable
way of doing business.
There were objections to the bonus-on-conduct method of paying wages. It tended toward paternalism.
Paternalism has no place in industry. Welfare work that consists in prying into employees' private
concerns is out of date. Men need counsel and men need help, oftentimes special help; and all this
ought to be rendered for decency's sake. But the broad workable plan of investment and participation
will do more to solidify industry and strengthen organization than will any social work on the outside.
Without changing the principle we have changed the method of payment.
CHAPTER IX
WHY NOT ALWAYS HAVE GOOD BUSINESS?
The employer has to live by the year. The workman has to live by the year. But both of them, as a rule,
work by the week. They get an order or a job when they can and at the price they can. During what is
called a prosperous time, orders and jobs are plentiful. During a "dull" season they are scarce. Business
is always either feasting or fasting and is always either "good" or "bad." Although there is never a time
when everyone has too much of this world's goods—when everyone is too comfortable or too happy—
there come periods when we have the astounding spectacle of a world hungry for goods and an
industrial machine hungry for work and the two—the demand and the means of satisfying it—held
apart by a money barrier. Both manufacturing and employment are in-and-out affairs. Instead of a
steady progression we go ahead by fits and starts—now going too fast, now stopping altogether. When
a great many people want to buy, there is said to be a shortage of goods. When nobody wants to buy,
there is said to be an overproduction of goods. I know that we have always had a shortage of goods,
but I do not believe we have ever had an overproduction. We may have, at a particular time, too much
of the wrong kind of goods. That is not overproduction—that is merely headless production. We may
also have great stocks of goods at too high prices. That is not overproduction—it is either bad
manufacturing or bad financing. Is business good or bad according to the dictates of fate? Must we
accept the conditions as inevitable? Business is good or bad as we make it so. The only reason for
growing crops, for mining, or for manufacturing, is that people may eat, keep warm, have clothing to
wear, and articles to use. There is no other possible reason, yet that reason is forced into the
background and instead we have operations carried on, not to the end of service, but to the end of
making money—and this because we have evolved a system of money that instead of being a
convenient medium of exchange, is at times a barrier to exchange. Of this more later.
We suffer frequent periods of so-called bad luck only because we manage so badly. If we had a vast
crop failure, I can imagine the country going hungry, but I cannot conceive how it is that we tolerate
hunger and poverty, when they grow solely out of bad management, and especially out of the bad
management that is implicit in an unreasoned financial structure. Of course the war upset affairs in this
country. It upset the whole world. There would have been no war had management been better. But the
war alone is not to blame. The war showed up a great number of the defects of the financial system,
but more than anything else it showed how insecure is business supported only by a money foundation.
I do not know whether bad business is the result of bad financial methods or whether the wrong motive
in business created bad financial methods, but I do know that, while it would be wholly undesirable to
try to overturn the present financial system, it is wholly desirable to reshape business on the basis of
service. Then a better financial system will have to come. The present system will drop out because it
will have no reason for being. The process will have to be a gradual one.
The start toward the stabilization of his own affairs may be made by any one. One cannot achieve
perfect results acting alone, but as the example begins to sink in there will be followers, and thus in the
course of time we can hope to put inflated business and its fellow, depressed business, into a class with
small-pox—that is, into the class of preventable diseases. It is perfectly possible, with the
reorganization of business and finance that is bound to come about, to take the ill effect of seasons, if
not the seasons, out of industry, and also the periodic depressions. Farming is already in process of
reorganization. When industry and farming are fully reorganized they will be complementary; they
belong together, not apart. As an indication, take our valve plant. We established it eighteen miles out
in the country so that the workers could also be farmers. By the use of machinery farming need not
consume more than a fraction of the time it now consumes; the time nature requires to produce is much
larger than that required for the human contribution of seeding, cultivating, and harvesting; in many
industries where the parts are not bulky it does not make much difference where they are made. By the
aid of water power they can well be made out in farming country. Thus we can, to a much larger
degree than is commonly known, have farmer-industrialists who both farm and work under the most
scientific and healthful conditions. That arrangement will care for some seasonal industries; others can
arrange a succession of products according to the seasons and the equipment, and still others can, with
more careful management, iron out their seasons. A complete study of any specific problem will show
the way.
The periodic depressions are more serious because they seem so vast as to be uncontrollable. Until the
whole reorganization is brought about, they cannot be wholly controlled, but each man in business can
easily do something for himself and while benefiting his own organization in a very material way, also
help others. The Ford production has not reflected good times or bad times; it has kept right on
regardless of conditions excepting from 1917 to 1919, when the factory was turned over to war work.
The year 1912-1913 was supposed to be a dull one; although now some call it "normal"; we all but
doubled our sales; 1913-1914 was dull; we increased our sales by more than a third. The year 1920-
1921 is supposed to have been one of the most depressed in history; we sold a million and a quarter
cars, or about five times as many as in 1913-1914—the "normal year." There is no particular secret in
it. It is, as is everything else in our business, the inevitable result of the application of a principle which
can be applied to any business.
We now have a minimum wage of six dollars a day paid without reservation. The people are
sufficiently used to high wages to make supervision unnecessary. The minimum wage is paid just as
soon as a worker has qualified in his production—which is a matter that depends upon his own desire
to work. We have put our estimate of profits into the wage and are now paying higher wages than
during the boom times after the war. But we are, as always, paying them on the basis of work. And that
the men do work is evidenced by the fact that although six dollars a day is the minimum wage, about
60 per cent. of the workers receive above the minimum. The six dollars is not a flat but a minimum
wage.
Consider first the fundamentals of prosperity. Progress is not made by pulling off a series of stunts.
Each step has to be regulated. A man cannot expect to progress without thinking. Take prosperity. A
truly prosperous time is when the largest number of people are getting all they can legitimately eat and
wear, and are in every sense of the word comfortable. It is the degree of the comfort of the people at
large—not the size of the manufacturer's bank balance—that evidences prosperity. The function of the
manufacturer is to contribute to this comfort. He is an instrument of society and he can serve society
only as he manages his enterprises so as to turn over to the public an increasingly better product at an
ever-decreasing price, and at the same time to pay to all those who have a hand in his business an ever-
increasing wage, based upon the work they do. In this way and in this way alone can a manufacturer or
any one in business justify his existence.
We are not much concerned with the statistics and the theories of the economists on the recurring
cycles of prosperity and depression. They call the periods when prices are high "prosperous." A really
prosperous period is not to be judged on the prices that manufacturers are quoting for articles.
We are not concerned with combinations of words. If the prices of goods are above the incomes of the
people, then get the prices down to the incomes. Ordinarily, business is conceived as starting with a
manufacturing process and ending with a consumer. If that consumer does not want to buy what the
manufacturer has to sell him and has not the money to buy it, then the manufacturer blames the
consumer and says that business is bad, and thus, hitching the cart before the horse, he goes on his way
lamenting. Isn't that nonsense?
Does the manufacturer exist for the consumer or does the consumer exist for the manufacturer? If the
consumer will not—says he cannot—buy what the manufacturer has to offer, is that the fault of the
manufacturer or the consumer? Or is nobody at fault? If nobody is at fault then the manufacturer must
go out of business.
But what business ever started with the manufacturer and ended with the consumer? Where does the
money to make the wheels go round come from? From the consumer, of course. And success in
manufacture is based solely upon an ability to serve that consumer to his liking. He may be served by
quality or he may be served by price. He is best served by the highest quality at the lowest price, and
any man who can give to the consumer the highest quality at the lowest price is bound to be a leader in
business, whatever the kind of an article he makes. There is no getting away from this.
Then why flounder around waiting for good business? Get the costs down by better management. Get
the prices down to the buying power.
Cutting wages is the easiest and most slovenly way to handle the situation, not to speak of its being an
inhuman way. It is, in effect, throwing upon labour the incompetency of the managers of the business.
If we only knew it, every depression is a challenge to every manufacturer to put more brains into his
business—to overcome by management what other people try to overcome by wage reduction. To
tamper with wages before all else is changed, is to evade the real issue. And if the real issue is tackled
first, no reduction of wages may be necessary. That has been my experience. The immediate practical
point is that, in the process of adjustment, someone will have to take a loss. And who can take a loss
except those who have something which they can afford to lose? But the expression, "take a loss," is
rather misleading. Really no loss is taken at all. It is only a giving up of a certain part of the past profits
in order to gain more in the future. I was talking not long since with a hardware merchant in a small
town. He said:
"I expect to take a loss of $10,000 on my stock. But of course, you know, it isn't really like losing that
much. We hardware men have had pretty good times. Most of my stock was bought at high prices, but
I have already sold several stocks and had the benefit of them. Besides, the ten thousand dollars which
I say I will lose are not the same kind of dollars that I used to have. They are, in a way, speculative
dollars. They are not the good dollars that bought 100 cents' worth. So, though my loss may sound big,
it is not big. And at the same time I am making it possible for the people in my town to go on building
their houses without being discouraged by the size of the hardware item."
He is a wise merchant. He would rather take less profit and keep business moving than keep his stock
at high prices and bar the progress of his community. A man like that is an asset to a town. He has a
clear head. He is better able to swing the adjustment through his inventory than through cutting down
the wages of his delivery men—through cutting down their ability to buy.
He did not sit around holding on to his prices and waiting for something to turn up. He realized what
seems to have been quite generally forgotten—that it is part of proprietorship every now and again to
lose money. We had to take our loss.
Our sales eventually fell off as all other sales fell off. We had a large inventory and, taking the
materials and parts in that inventory at their cost price, we could not turn out a car at a price lower than
we were asking, but that was a price which on the turn of business was higher than people could or
wanted to pay. We closed down to get our bearings. We were faced with making a cut of $17,000,000
in the inventory or taking a much larger loss than that by not doing business. So there was no choice at
all.
That is always the choice that a man in business has. He can take the direct loss on his books and go
ahead and do business or he can stop doing business and take the loss of idleness. The loss of not
doing business is commonly a loss greater than the actual money involved, for during the period of
idleness fear will consume initiative and, if the shutdown is long enough, there will be no energy left
over to start up with again.
There is no use waiting around for business to improve. If a manufacturer wants to perform his
function, he must get his price down to what people will pay. There is always, no matter what the
condition, a price that people can and will pay for a necessity, and always, if the will is there, that price
can be met.
It cannot be met by lowering quality or by shortsighted economy, which results only in a dissatisfied
working force. It cannot be met by fussing or buzzing around. It can be met only by increasing the
efficiency of production and, viewed in this fashion, each business depression, so-called, ought to be
regarded as a challenge to the brains of the business community. Concentrating on prices instead of on
service is a sure indication of the kind of business man who can give no justification for his existence
as a proprietor.
This is only another way of saying that sales should be made on the natural basis of real value, which
is the cost of transmuting human energy into articles of trade and commerce. But that simple formula
is not considered business-like. It is not complex enough. We have "business" which takes the most
honest of all human activities and makes them subject to the speculative shrewdness of men who can
produce false shortages of food and other commodities, and thus excite in society anxiety of demand.
We have false stimulation and then false numbness.
Economic justice is being constantly and quite often innocently violated. You may say that it is the
economic condition which makes mankind what it is; or you may say that it is mankind that makes the
economic condition what it is. You will find many claiming that it is the economic system which
makes men what they are. They blame our industrial system for all the faults which we behold in
mankind generally. And you will find other men who say that man creates his own conditions; that if
the economic, industrial, or social system is bad, it is but a reflection of what man himself is. What is
wrong in our industrial system is a reflection of what is wrong in man himself. Manufacturers hesitate
to admit that the mistakes of the present industrial methods are, in part at least, their own mistakes,
systematized and extended. But take the question outside of a man's immediate concerns, and he sees
the point readily enough.
No doubt, with a less faulty human nature a less faulty social system would have grown up. Or, if
human nature were worse than it is, a worse system would have grown up—though probably a worse
system would not have lasted as long as the present one has. But few will claim that mankind
deliberately set out to create a faulty social system. Granting without reserve that all faults of the social
system are in man himself, it does not follow that he deliberately organized his imperfections and
established them. We shall have to charge a great deal up to ignorance. We shall have to charge a great
deal up to innocence.
Take the beginnings of our present industrial system. There was no indication of how it would grow.
Every new advance was hailed with joy. No one ever thought of "capital" and "labour" as hostile
interests. No one ever dreamed that the very fact of success would bring insidious dangers with it. And
yet with growth every imperfection latent in the system came out. A man's business grew to such
proportions that he had to have more helpers than he knew by their first names; but that fact was not
regretted; it was rather hailed with joy. And yet it has since led to an impersonal system wherein the
workman has become something less than a person—a mere part of the system. No one believes, of
course, that this dehumanizing process was deliberately invented. It just grew. It was latent in the
whole early system, but no one saw it and no one could foresee it. Only prodigious and unheard-of
development could bring it to light.
Take the industrial idea; what is it? The true industrial idea is not to make money. The industrial idea
is to express a serviceable idea, to duplicate a useful idea, by as many thousands as there are people
who need it.
To produce, produce; to get a system that will reduce production to a fine art; to put production on
such a basis as will provide means for expansion and the building of still more shops, the production of
still more thousands of useful things—that is the real industrial idea. The negation of the industrial
idea is the effort to make a profit out of speculation instead of out of work. There are short-sighted
men who cannot see that business is bigger than any one man's interests. Business is a process of give
and take, live and let live. It is cooperation among many forces and interests. Whenever you find a
man who believes that business is a river whose beneficial flow ought to stop as soon as it reaches him
you find a man who thinks he can keep business alive by stopping its circulation. He would produce
wealth by this stopping of the production of wealth.
The principles of service cannot fail to cure bad business. Which leads us into the practical application
of the principles of service and finance.
CHAPTER X
HOW CHEAPLY CAN THINGS BE MADE?
No one will deny that if prices are sufficiently low, buyers will always be found, no matter what are
supposed to be the business conditions. That is one of the elemental facts of business. Sometimes raw
materials will not move, no matter how low the price. We have seen something of that during the last
year, but that is because the manufacturers and the distributors were trying to dispose of high-cost
stocks before making new engagements. The markets were stagnant, but not "saturated" with goods.
What is called a "saturated" market is only one in which the prices are above the purchasing power.
Unduly high prices are always a sign of unsound business, because they are always due to some
abnormal condition. A healthy patient has a normal temperature; a healthy market has normal prices.
High prices come about commonly by reason of speculation following the report of a shortage.
Although there is never a shortage in everything, a shortage in just a few important commodities, or
even in one, serves to start speculation. Or again, goods may not be short at all. An inflation of
currency or credit will cause a quick bulge in apparent buying power and the consequent opportunity
to speculate. There may be a combination of actual shortages and a currency inflation—as frequently
happens during war. But in any condition of unduly high prices, no matter what the real cause, the
people pay the high prices because they think there is going to be a shortage. They may buy bread
ahead of their own needs, so as not to be left later in the lurch, or they may buy in the hope of reselling
at a profit. When there was talk of a sugar shortage, housewives who had never in their lives bought
more than ten pounds of sugar at once tried to get stocks of one hundred or two hundred pounds, and
while they were doing this, speculators were buying sugar to store in warehouses. Nearly all our war
shortages were caused by speculation or buying ahead of need.
No matter how short the supply of an article is supposed to be, no matter if the Government takes
control and seizes every ounce of that article, a man who is willing to pay the money can always get
whatever supply he is willing to pay for. No one ever knows actually how great or how small is the
national stock of any commodity. The very best figures are not more than guesses; estimates of the
world's stock of a commodity are still wilder. We may think we know how much of a commodity is
produced on a certain day or in a certain month, but that does not tell us how much will be produced
the next day or the next month. Likewise we do not know how much is consumed. By spending a great
deal of money we might, in the course of time, get at fairly accurate figures on how much of a
particular commodity was consumed over a period, but by the time those figures were compiled they
would be utterly useless except for historical purposes, because in the next period the consumption
might be double or half as much. People do not stay put. That is the trouble with all the framers of
Socialistic and Communistic, and of all other plans for the ideal regulation of society. They all
presume that people will stay put. The reactionary has the same idea. He insists that everyone ought to
stay put. Nobody does, and for that I am thankful.
Consumption varies according to the price and the quality, and nobody knows or can figure out what
future consumption will amount to, because every time a price is lowered a new stratum of buying
power is reached. Everyone knows that, but many refuse to recognize it by their acts. When a
storekeeper buys goods at a wrong price and finds they will not move, he reduces the price by degrees
until they do move. If he is wise, instead of nibbling at the price and encouraging in his customers the
hope of even lower prices, he takes a great big bite out of the price and gets the stuff out of his place.
Everyone takes a loss on some proposition of sales. The common hope is that after the loss there may
be a big profit to make up for the loss. That is usually a delusion. The profit out of which the loss has
to be taken must be found in the business preceding the cut. Any one who was foolish enough to
regard the high profits of the boom period as permanent profits got into financial trouble when the
drop came. However, there is a belief, and a very strong one, that business consists of a series of
profits and losses, and good business is one in which the profits exceed the losses. Therefore some
men reason that the best price to sell at is the highest price which may be had. That is supposed to be
good business practice. Is it? We have not found it so.
We have found in buying materials that it is not worth while to buy for other than immediate needs.
We buy only enough to fit into the plan of production, taking into consideration the state of
transportation at the time. If transportation were perfect and an even flow of materials could be
assured, it would not be necessary to carry any stock whatsoever. The carloads of raw materials would
arrive on schedule and in the planned order and amounts, and go from the railway cars into production.
That would save a great deal of money, for it would give a very rapid turnover and thus decrease the
amount of money tied up in materials. With bad transportation one has to carry larger stocks. At the
time of revaluing the inventory in 1921 the stock was unduly high because transportation had been so
bad. But we learned long ago never to buy ahead for speculative purposes. When prices are going up it
is considered good business to buy far ahead, and when prices are up to buy as little as possible. It
needs no argument to demonstrate that, if you buy materials at ten cents a pound and the material goes
later to twenty cents a pound you will have a distinct advantage over the man who is compelled to buy
at twenty cents. But we have found that thus buying ahead does not pay. It is entering into a guessing
contest. It is not business. If a man buys a large stock at ten cents, he is in a fine position as long as the
other man is paying twenty cents. Then he later gets a chance to buy more of the material at twenty
cents, and it seems to be a good buy because everything points to the price going to thirty cents.
Having great satisfaction in his previous judgment, on which he made money, he of course makes the
new purchase. Then the price drops and he is just where he started. We have carefully figured, over the
years, that buying ahead of requirements does not pay—that the gains on one purchase will be offset
by the losses on another, and in the end we have gone to a great deal of trouble without any
corresponding benefit. Therefore in our buying we simply get the best price we can for the quantity
that we require. We do not buy less if the price be high and we do not buy more if the price be low. We
carefully avoid bargain lots in excess of requirements. It was not easy to reach that decision. But in the
end speculation will kill any manufacturer. Give him a couple of good purchases on which he makes
money and before long he will be thinking more about making money out of buying and selling than
out of his legitimate business, and he will smash. The only way to keep out of trouble is to buy what
one needs—no more and no less. That course removes one hazard from business.
This buying experience is given at length because it explains our selling policy. Instead of giving
attention to competitors or to demand, our prices are based on an estimate of what the largest possible
number of people will want to pay, or can pay, for what we have to sell. And what has resulted from
that policy is best evidenced by comparing the price of the touring car and the production.
YEAR PRICE PRODUCTION 1909-10 $950 18,664 cars 1910-11 $780 34,528 " 1911-12
$690 78,440 " 1912-13 $600 168,220 " 1913-14 $550 248,307 " 1914-15 $490 308,213 "
1915-16 $440 533,921 " 1916-17 $360 785,432 " 1917-18 $450 706,584 " 1918-19 $525
533,706 " (The above two years were war years and the factory was in war work). 1919-20
$575 to $440 996,660 " 1920-21 $440 to $355 1,250,000 "
The high prices of 1921 were, considering the financial inflation, not really high. At the time of writing
the price is $497. These prices are actually lower than they appear to be, because improvements in
quality are being steadily made. We study every car in order to discover if it has features that might be
developed and adapted. If any one has anything better than we have we want to know it, and for that
reason we buy one of every new car that comes out. Usually the car is used for a while, put through a
road test, taken apart, and studied as to how and of what everything is made. Scattered about Dearborn
there is probably one of nearly every make of car on earth. Every little while when we buy a new car it
gets into the newspapers and somebody remarks that Ford doesn't use the Ford. Last year we ordered a
big Lanchester—which is supposed to be the best car in England. It lay in our Long Island factory for
several months and then I decided to drive it to Detroit. There were several of us and we had a little
caravan—the Lanchester, a Packard, and a Ford or two. I happened to be riding in the Lanchester
passing through a New York town and when the reporters came up they wanted to know right away
why I was not riding in a Ford.
"Well, you see, it is this way," I answered. "I am on a vacation now; I am in no hurry, we do not care
much when we get home. That is the reason I am not in the Ford."
You know, we also have a line of "Ford stories"!
Our policy is to reduce the price, extend the operations, and improve the article. You will notice that
the reduction of price comes first. We have never considered any costs as fixed. Therefore we first
reduce the price to a point where we believe more sales will result. Then we go ahead and try to make
the price. We do not bother about the costs. The new price forces the costs down. The more usual way
is to take the costs and then determine the price, and although that method may be scientific in the
narrow sense, it is not scientific in the broad sense, because what earthly use is it to know the cost if it
tells you you cannot manufacture at a price at which the article can be sold? But more to the point is
the fact that, although one may calculate what a cost is, and of course all of our costs are carefully
calculated, no one knows what a cost ought to be. One of the ways of discovering what a cost ought to
be is to name a price so low as to force everybody in the place to the highest point of efficiency. The
low price makes everybody dig for profits. We make more discoveries concerning manufacturing and
selling under this forced method than by any method of leisurely investigation.
The payment of high wages fortunately contributes to the low costs because the men become steadily
more efficient on account of being relieved of outside worries. The payment of five dollars a day for
an eight-hour day was one of the finest cost-cutting moves we ever made, and the six-dollar day wage
is cheaper than the five. How far this will go, we do not know.
We have always made a profit at the prices we have fixed and, just as we have no idea how high wages
will go, we also have no idea how low prices will go, but there is no particular use in bothering on that
point. The tractor, for instance, was first sold for $750, then at $850, then at $625, and the other day
we cut it 37 per cent, to $395. The tractor is not made in connection with the automobiles. No plant is
large enough to make two articles. A shop has to be devoted to exactly one product in order to get the
real economies.
For most purposes a man with a machine is better than a man without a machine. By the ordering of
design of product and of manufacturing process we are able to provide that kind of a machine which
most multiplies the power of the hand, and therefore we give to that man a larger role of service, which
means that he is entitled to a larger share of comfort.
Keeping that principle in mind we can attack waste with a definite objective. We will not put into our
establishment anything that is useless. We will not put up elaborate buildings as monuments to our
success. The interest on the investment and the cost of their upkeep only serve to add uselessly to the
cost of what is produced—so these monuments of success are apt to end as tombs. A great
administration building may be necessary. In me it arouses a suspicion that perhaps there is too much
administration. We have never found a need for elaborate administration and would prefer to be
advertised by our product than by where we make our product.
The standardization that effects large economies for the consumer results in profits of such gross
magnitude to the producer that he can scarcely know what to do with his money. But his effort must be
sincere, painstaking, and fearless. Cutting out a half-a-dozen models is not standardizing. It may be,
and usually is, only the limiting of business, for if one is selling on the ordinary basis of profit—that is,
on the basis of taking as much money away from the consumer as he will give up—then surely the
consumer ought to have a wide range of choice.
Standardization, then, is the final stage of the process. We start with consumer, work back through the
design, and finally arrive at manufacturing. The manufacturing becomes a means to the end of service.
It is important to bear this order in mind. As yet, the order is not thoroughly understood. The price
relation is not understood. The notion persists that prices ought to be kept up. On the contrary, good
business—large consumption—depends on their going down.
And here is another point. The service must be the best you can give. It is considered good
manufacturing practice, and not bad ethics, occasionally to change designs so that old models will
become obsolete and new ones will have to be bought either because repair parts for the old cannot be
had, or because the new model offers a new sales argument which can be used to persuade a consumer
to scrap what he has and buy something new. We have been told that this is good business, that it is
clever business, that the object of business ought to be to get people to buy frequently and that it is bad
business to try to make anything that will last forever, because when once a man is sold he will not buy
again.
Our principle of business is precisely to the contrary. We cannot conceive how to serve the consumer
unless we make for him something that, as far as we can provide, will last forever. We want to
construct some kind of a machine that will last forever. It does not please us to have a buyer's car wear
out or become obsolete. We want the man who buys one of our products never to have to buy another.
We never make an improvement that renders any previous model obsolete. The parts of a specific
model are not only interchangeable with all other cars of that model, but they are interchangeable with
similar parts on all the cars that we have turned out. You can take a car of ten years ago and, buying to-
day's parts, make it with very little expense into a car of to-day. Having these objectives the costs
always come down under pressure. And since we have the firm policy of steady price reduction, there
is always pressure. Sometimes it is just harder!
Take a few more instances of saving. The sweepings net six hundred thousand dollars a year.
Experiments are constantly going on in the utilization of scrap. In one of the stamping operations six-
inch circles of sheet metal are cut out. These formerly went into scrap. The waste worried the men.
They worked to find uses for the discs. They found that the plates were just the right size and shape to
stamp into radiator caps but the metal was not thick enough. They tried a double thickness of plates,
with the result that they made a cap which tests proved to be stronger than one made out of a single
sheet of metal. We get 150,000 of those discs a day. We have now found a use for about 20,000 a day
and expect to find further uses for the remainder. We saved about ten dollars each by making
transmissions instead of buying them. We experimented with bolts and produced a special bolt made
on what is called an "upsetting machine" with a rolled thread that was stronger than any bolt we could
buy, although in its making was used only about one third of the material that the outside
manufacturers used. The saving on one style of bolt alone amounted to half a million dollars a year.
We used to assemble our cars at Detroit, and although by special packing we managed to get five or
six into a freight car, we needed many hundreds of freight cars a day. Trains were moving in and out
all the time. Once a thousand freight cars were packed in a single day. A certain amount of congestion
was inevitable. It is very expensive to knock down machines and crate them so that they cannot be
injured in transit—to say nothing of the transportation charges. Now, we assemble only three or four
hundred cars a day at Detroit—just enough for local needs. We now ship the parts to our assembling
stations all over the United States and in fact pretty much all over the world, and the machines are put
together there. Wherever it is possible for a branch to make a part more cheaply than we can make it in
Detroit and ship it to them, then the branch makes the part.
The plant at Manchester, England, is making nearly an entire car. The tractor plant at Cork, Ireland, is
making almost a complete tractor. This is an enormous saving of expense and is only an indication of
what may be done throughout industry generally, when each part of a composite article is made at the
exact point where it may be made most economically. We are constantly experimenting with every
material that enters into the car. We cut most of our own lumber from our own forests. We are
experimenting in the manufacture of artificial leather because we use about forty thousand yards of
artificial leather a day. A penny here and a penny there runs into large amounts in the course of a year.
The greatest development of all, however, is the River Rouge plant, which, when it is running to its
full capacity, will cut deeply and in many directions into the price of everything we make. The whole
tractor plant is now there. This plant is located on the river on the outskirts of Detroit and the property
covers six hundred and sixty-five acres—enough for future development. It has a large slip and a
turning basin capable of accommodating any lake steamship; a short-cut canal and some dredging will
give a direct lake connection by way of the Detroit River. We use a great deal of coal. This coal comes
directly from our mines over the Detroit, Toledo and Ironton Railway, which we control, to the
Highland Park plant and the River Rouge plant. Part of it goes for steam purposes. Another part goes
to the by-product coke ovens which we have established at the River Rouge plant. Coke moves on
from the ovens by mechanical transmission to the blast furnaces. The low volatile gases from the blast
furnaces are piped to the power plant boilers where they are joined by the sawdust and the shavings
from the body plant—the making of all our bodies has been shifted to this plant—and in addition the
coke "breeze" (the dust in the making of coke) is now also being utilized for stoking. The steam power
plant is thus fired almost exclusively from what would otherwise be waste products. Immense steam
turbines directly coupled with dynamos transform this power into electricity, and all of the machinery
in the tractor and the body plants is run by individual motors from this electricity. In the course of time
it is expected that there will be sufficient electricity to run practically the whole Highland Park plant,
and we shall then have cut out our coal bill.
Among the by-products of the coke ovens is a gas. It is piped both to the Rouge and Highland Park
plants where it is used for heat-treat purposes, for the enamelling ovens, for the car ovens, and the like.
We formerly had to buy this gas. The ammonium sulphate is used for fertilizer. The benzol is a motor
fuel. The small sizes of coke, not suitable for the blast furnaces, are sold to the employees—delivered
free into their homes at much less than the ordinary market price. The large-sized coke goes to the
blast furnaces. There is no manual handling. We run the melted iron directly from the blast furnaces
into great ladles. These ladles travel into the shops and the iron is poured directly into the moulds
without another heating. We thus not only get a uniform quality of iron according to our own
specifications and directly under our control, but we save a melting of pig iron and in fact cut out a
whole process in manufacturing as well as making available all our own scrap.
What all this will amount to in point of savings we do not know—that is, we do not know how great
will be the saving, because the plant has not been running long enough to give more than an indication
of what is ahead, and we save in so many directions—in transportation, in the generation of our power,
in the generation of gas, in the expense in casting, and then over and above that is the revenue from the
by-products and from the smaller sizes of coke. The investment to accomplish these objects to date
amounts to something over forty million dollars.
How far we shall thus reach back to sources depends entirely on circumstances. Nobody anywhere can
really do more than guess about the future costs of production. It is wiser to recognize that the future
holds more than the past—that every day holds within it an improvement on the methods of the day
before.
But how about production? If every necessary of life were produced so cheaply and in such quantities,
would not the world shortly be surfeited with goods? Will there not come a point when, regardless of
price, people simply will not want anything more than what they already have? And if in the process of
manufacturing fewer and fewer men are used, what is going to become of these men—how are they
going to find jobs and live?
Take the second point first. We mentioned many machines and many methods that displaced great
numbers of men and then someone asks:
"Yes, that is a very fine idea from the standpoint of the proprietor, but how about these poor fellows
whose jobs are taken away from them?"
The question is entirely reasonable, but it is a little curious that it should be asked. For when were men
ever really put out of work by the bettering of industrial processes? The stage-coach drivers lost their
jobs with the coming of the railways. Should we have prohibited the railways and kept the stage-coach
drivers? Were there more men working with the stage-coaches than are working on the railways?
Should we have prevented the taxicab because its coming took the bread out of the mouths of the
horse-cab drivers? How does the number of taxicabs compare with the number of horse-cabs when the
latter were in their prime? The coming of shoe machinery closed most of the shops of those who made
shoes by hand. When shoes were made by hand, only the very well-to-do could own more than a single
pair of shoes, and most working people went barefooted in summer. Now, hardly any one has only one
pair of shoes, and shoe making is a great industry. No, every time you can so arrange that one man will
do the work of two, you so add to the wealth of the country that there will be a new and better job for
the man who is displaced. If whole industries changed overnight, then disposing of the surplus men
would be a problem, but these changes do not occur as rapidly as that. They come gradually. In our
own experience a new place always opens for a man as soon as better processes have taken his old job.
And what happens in my shops happens everywhere in industry. There are many times more men to-
day employed in the steel industries than there were in the days when every operation was by hand. It
has to be so. It always is so and always will be so. And if any man cannot see it, it is because he will
not look beyond his own nose.
Now as to saturation. We are continually asked:
"When will you get to the point of overproduction? When will there be more cars than people to use
them?"
We believe it is possible some day to reach the point where all goods are produced so cheaply and in
such quantities that overproduction will be a reality. But as far as we are concerned, we do not look
forward to that condition with fear—we look forward to it with great satisfaction. Nothing could be
more splendid than a world in which everybody has all that he wants. Our fear is that this condition
will be too long postponed. As to our own products, that condition is very far away. We do not know
how many motor cars a family will desire to use of the particular kind that we make. We know that, as
the price has come down, the farmer, who at first used one car (and it must be remembered that it is
not so very long ago that the farm market for motor cars was absolutely unknown—the limit of sales
was at that time fixed by all the wise statistical sharps at somewhere near the number of millionaires in
the country) now often uses two, and also he buys a truck. Perhaps, instead of sending workmen out to
scattered jobs in a single car, it will be cheaper to send each worker out in a car of his own. That is
happening with salesmen. The public finds its own consumptive needs with unerring accuracy, and
since we no longer make motor cars or tractors, but merely the parts which when assembled become
motor cars and tractors, the facilities as now provided would hardly be sufficient to provide
replacements for ten million cars. And it would be quite the same with any business. We do not have
to bother about overproduction for some years to come, provided the prices are right. It is the refusal of
people to buy on account of price that really stimulates real business. Then if we want to do business
we have to get the prices down without hurting the quality. Thus price reduction forces us to learn
improved and less wasteful methods of production. One big part of the discovery of what is "normal"
in industry depends on managerial genius discovering better ways of doing things. If a man reduces his
selling price to a point where he is making no profit or incurring a loss, then he simply is forced to
discover how to make as good an article by a better method—making his new method produce the
profit, and not producing a profit out of reduced wages or increased prices to the public.
It is not good management to take profits out of the workers or the buyers; make management produce
the profits. Don't cheapen the product; don't cheapen the wage; don't overcharge the public. Put brains
into the method, and more brains, and still more brains—do things better than ever before; and by this
means all parties to business are served and benefited.
And all of this can always be done.
CHAPTER XI
MONEY AND GOODS
The primary object of a manufacturing business is to produce, and if that objective is always kept,
finance becomes a wholly secondary matter that has largely to do with bookkeeping. My own financial
operations have been very simple. I started with the policy of buying and selling for cash, keeping a
large fund of cash always on hand, taking full advantage of all discounts, and collecting interest on
bank balances. I regard a bank principally as a place in which it is safe and convenient to keep money.
The minutes we spend on a competitor's business we lose on our own. The minutes we spend in
becoming expert in finance we lose in production. The place to finance a manufacturing business is the
shop, and not the bank. I would not say that a man in business needs to know nothing at all about
finance, but he is better off knowing too little than too much, for if he becomes too expert he will get
into the way of thinking that he can borrow money instead of earning it and then he will borrow more
money to pay back what he has borrowed, and instead of being a business man he will be a note
juggler, trying to keep in the air a regular flock of bonds and notes.
If he is a really expert juggler, he may keep going quite a long time in this fashion, but some day he is
bound to make a miss and the whole collection will come tumbling down around him. Manufacturing
is not to be confused with banking, and I think that there is a tendency for too many business men to
mix up in banking and for too many bankers to mix up in business. The tendency is to distort the true
purposes of both business and banking and that hurts both of them. The money has to come out of the
shop, not out of the bank, and I have found that the shop will answer every possible requirement, and
in one case, when it was believed that the company was rather seriously in need of funds, the shop
when called on raised a larger sum than any bank in this country could loan.
We have been thrown into finance mostly in the way of denial. Some years back we had to keep
standing a denial that the Ford Motor Company was owned by the Standard Oil Company and with
that denial, for convenience's sake, we coupled a denial that we were connected with any other concern
or that we intended to sell cars by mail. Last year the best-liked rumour was that we were down in
Wall Street hunting for money. I did not bother to deny that. It takes too much time to deny everything.
Instead, we demonstrated that we did not need any money. Since then I have heard nothing more about
being financed by Wall Street.
We are not against borrowing money and we are not against bankers. We are against trying to make
borrowed money take the place of work. We are against the kind of banker who regards a business as a
melon to be cut. The thing is to keep money and borrowing and finance generally in their proper place,
and in order to do that one has to consider exactly for what the money is needed and how it is going to
be paid off.
Money is only a tool in business. It is just a part of the machinery. You might as well borrow 100,000
lathes as $100,000 if the trouble is inside your business. More lathes will not cure it; neither will more
money. Only heavier doses of brains and thought and wise courage can cure. A business that misuses
what it has will continue to misuse what it can get. The point is—cure the misuse. When that is done,
the business will begin to make its own money, just as a repaired human body begins to make
sufficient pure blood.
Borrowing may easily become an excuse for not boring into the trouble. Borrowing may easily become
a sop for laziness and pride. Some business men are too lazy to get into overalls and go down to see
what is the matter. Or they are too proud to permit the thought that anything they have originated could
go wrong. But the laws of business are like the law of gravity, and the man who opposes them feels
their power.
Borrowing for expansion is one thing; borrowing to make up for mismanagement and waste is quite
another. You do not want money for the latter—for the reason that money cannot do the job. Waste is
corrected by economy; mismanagement is corrected by brains. Neither of these correctives has
anything to do with money. Indeed, money under certain circumstances is their enemy. And many a
business man thanks his stars for the pinch which showed him that his best capital was in his own
brains and not in bank loans. Borrowing under certain circumstances is just like a drunkard taking
another drink to cure the effect of the last one. It does not do what it is expected to do. It simply
increases the difficulty. Tightening up the loose places in a business is much more profitable than any
amount of new capital at 7 per cent.
The internal ailments of business are the ones that require most attention. "Business" in the sense of
trading with the people is largely a matter of filling the wants of the people. If you make what they
need, and sell it at a price which makes possession a help and not a hardship, then you will do business
as long as there is business to do. People buy what helps them just as naturally as they drink water.
But the process of making the article will require constant care. Machinery wears out and needs to be
restored. Men grow uppish, lazy, or careless. A business is men and machines united in the production
of a commodity, and both the man and the machines need repairs and replacements. Sometimes it is
the men "higher up" who most need revamping—and they themselves are always the last to recognize
it. When a business becomes congested with bad methods; when a business becomes ill through lack
of attention to one or more of its functions; when executives sit comfortably back in their chairs as if
the plans they inaugurated are going to keep them going forever; when business becomes a mere
plantation on which to live, and not a big work which one has to do—then you may expect trouble.
You will wake up some fine morning and find yourself doing more business than you have ever done
before—and getting less out of it. You find yourself short of money. You can borrow money. And you
can do it, oh, so easily. People will crowd money on you. It is the most subtle temptation the young
business man has. But if you do borrow money you are simply giving a stimulant to whatever may be
wrong. You feed the disease. Is a man more wise with borrowed money than he is with his own? Not
as a usual thing. To borrow under such conditions is to mortgage a declining property.
The time for a business man to borrow money, if ever, is when he does not need it. That is, when he
does not need it as a substitute for the things he ought himself to do. If a man's business is in excellent
condition and in need of expansion, it is comparatively safe to borrow. But if a business is in need of
money through mismanagement, then the thing to do is to get into the business and correct the trouble
from the inside—not poultice it with loans from the outside.
My financial policy is the result of my sales policy. I hold that it is better to sell a large number of
articles at a small profit than to sell a few at a large profit. This enables a larger number of people to
buy and it gives a larger number of men employment at good wages. It permits the planning of
production, the elimination of dull seasons, and the waste of carrying an idle plant. Thus results a
suitable, continuous business, and if you will think it over, you will discover that most so-called urgent
financing is made necessary because of a lack of planned, continuous business. Reducing prices is
taken by the short-sighted to be the same as reducing the income of a business. It is very difficult to
deal with that sort of a mind because it is so totally lacking in even the background knowledge of what
business is. For instance, I was once asked, when contemplating a reduction of eighty dollars a car,
whether on a production of five hundred thousand cars this would not reduce the income of the
company by forty million dollars. Of course if one sold only five hundred thousand cars at the new
price, the income would be reduced forty million dollars—which is an interesting mathematical
calculation that has nothing whatsoever to do with business, because unless you reduce the price of an
article the sales do not continuously increase and therefore the business has no stability.
If a business is not increasing, it is bound to be decreasing, and a decreasing business always needs a
lot of financing. Old-time business went on the doctrine that prices should always be kept up to the
highest point at which people will buy. Really modern business has to take the opposite view.
Bankers and lawyers can rarely appreciate this fact. They confuse inertia with stability. It is perfectly
beyond their comprehension that the price should ever voluntarily be reduced. That is why putting the
usual type of banker or lawyer into the management of a business is courting disaster. Reducing prices
increases the volume and disposes of finance, provided one regards the inevitable profit as a trust fund
with which to conduct more and better business. Our profit, because of the rapidity of the turnover in
the business and the great volume of sales, has, no matter what the price at which the product was sold,
always been large. We have had a small profit per article but a large aggregate profit. The profit is not
constant. After cutting the prices, the profits for a time run low, but then the inevitable economies
begin to get in their work and the profits go high again. But they are not distributed as dividends. I
have always insisted on the payment of small dividends and the company has to-day no stockholders
who wanted a different policy. I regard business profits above a small percentage as belonging more to
the business than to the stockholders.
The stockholders, to my way of thinking, ought to be only those who are active in the business and
who will regard the company as an instrument of service rather than as a machine for making money.
If large profits are made—and working to serve forces them to be large—then they should be in part
turned back into the business so that it may be still better fitted to serve, and in part passed on to the
purchaser. During one year our profits were so much larger than we expected them to be that we
voluntarily returned fifty dollars to each purchaser of a car. We felt that unwittingly we had
overcharged the purchaser by that much. My price policy and hence my financial policy came up in a
suit brought against the company several years ago to compel the payment of larger dividends. On the
witness stand I gave the policy then in force and which is still in force. It is this:
In the first place, I hold that it is better to sell a large number of cars at a reasonably small margin than
to sell fewer cars at a large margin of profit.
I hold this because it enables a large number of people to buy and enjoy the use of a car and because it
gives a larger number of men employment at good wages. Those are aims I have in life. But I would
not be counted a success; I would be, in fact, a flat failure if I could not accomplish that and at the
same time make a fair amount of profit for myself and the men associated with me in business.
This policy I hold is good business policy because it works—because with each succeeding year we
have been able to put our car within the reach of greater and greater numbers, give employment to
more and more men, and, at the same time, through the volume of business, increase our own profits
beyond anything we had hoped for or even dreamed of when we started.
Bear in mind, every time you reduce the price of the car without reducing the quality, you increase the
possible number of purchasers. There are many men who will pay $360 for a car who would not pay
$440. We had in round numbers 500,000 buyers of cars on the $440 basis, and I figure that on the
$360 basis we can increase the sales to possibly 800,000 cars for the year—less profit on each car, but
more cars, more employment of labour, and in the end we shall get all the total profit we ought to
make.
And let me say right here, that I do not believe that we should make such an awful profit on our cars. A
reasonable profit is right, but not too much. So it has been my policy to force the price of the car down
as fast as production would permit, and give the benefits to users and labourers—with resulting
surprisingly enormous benefits to ourselves.
This policy does not agree with the general opinion that a business is to be managed to the end that the
stockholders can take out the largest possible amount of cash. Therefore I do not want stockholders in
the ordinary sense of the term—they do not help forward the ability to serve. My ambition is to
employ more and more men and to spread, in so far as I am able, the benefits of the industrial system
that we are working to found; we want to help build lives and homes. This requires that the largest
share of the profits be put back into productive enterprise. Hence we have no place for the non-
working stockholders. The working stockholder is more anxious to increase his opportunity to serve
than to bank dividends.
If it at any time became a question between lowering wages or abolishing dividends, I would abolish
dividends. That time is not apt to come, for, as I have pointed out, there is no economy in low wages. It
is bad financial policy to reduce wages because it also reduces buying power. If one believes that
leadership brings responsibility, then a part of that responsibility is in seeing that those whom one
leads shall have an adequate opportunity to earn a living. Finance concerns not merely the profit or
solvency of a company; it also comprehends the amount of money that the company turns back to the
community through wages. There is no charity in this. There is no charity in proper wages. It is simply
that no company can be said to be stable which is not so well managed that it can afford a man an
opportunity to do a great deal of work and therefore to earn a good wage.
There is something sacred about wages—they represent homes and families and domestic destinies.
People ought to tread very carefully when approaching wages. On the cost sheet, wages are mere
figures; out in the world, wages are bread boxes and coal bins, babies' cradles and children's education
—family comforts and contentment. On the other hand, there is something just as sacred about capital
which is used to provide the means by which work can be made productive. Nobody is helped if our
industries are sucked dry of their life-blood. There is something just as sacred about a shop that
employs thousands of men as there is about a home. The shop is the mainstay of all the finer things
which the home represents. If we want the home to be happy, we must contrive to keep the shop busy.
The whole justification of the profits made by the shop is that they are used to make doubly secure the
homes dependent on that shop, and to create more jobs for other men. If profits go to swell a personal
fortune, that is one thing; if they go to provide a sounder basis for business, better working conditions,
better wages, more extended employment—that is quite another thing. Capital thus employed should
not be carelessly tampered with. It is for the service of all, though it may be under the direction of one.
Profits belong in three places: they belong to the business—to keep it steady, progressive, and sound.
They belong to the men who helped produce them. And they belong also, in part, to the public. A
successful business is profitable to all three of these interests—planner, producer, and purchaser.
People whose profits are excessive when measured by any sound standard should be the first to cut
prices. But they never are. They pass all their extra costs down the line until the whole burden is borne
by the consumer; and besides doing that, they charge the consumer a percentage on the increased
charges. Their whole business philosophy is: "Get while the getting is good." They are the speculators,
the exploiters, the no-good element that is always injuring legitimate business. There is nothing to be
expected from them. They have no vision. They cannot see beyond their own cash registers.
These people can talk more easily about a 10 or 20 per cent. cut in wages than they can about a 10 or
20 per cent. cut in profits. But a business man, surveying the whole community in all its interests and
wishing to serve that community, ought to be able to make his contribution to stability.
It has been our policy always to keep on hand a large amount of cash—the cash balance in recent years
has usually been in excess of fifty million dollars. This is deposited in banks all over the country, we
do not borrow but we have established lines of credit, so that if we so cared we might raise a very large
amount of money by bank borrowing. But keeping the cash reserve makes borrowing unnecessary—
our provision is only to be prepared to meet an emergency. I have no prejudice against proper
borrowing. It is merely that I do not want to run the danger of having the control of the business and
hence the particular idea of service to which I am devoted taken into other hands.
A considerable part of finance is in the overcoming of seasonal operation. The flow of money ought to
be nearly continuous. One must work steadily in order to work profitably. Shutting down involves
great waste. It brings the waste of unemployment of men, the waste of unemployment of equipment,
and the waste of restricted future sales through the higher prices of interrupted production. That has
been one of the problems we had to meet. We could not manufacture cars to stock during the winter
months when purchases are less than in spring or summer. Where or how could any one store half a
million cars? And if stored, how could they be shipped in the rush season? And who would find the
money to carry such a stock of cars even if they could be stored?
Seasonal work is hard on the working force. Good mechanics will not accept jobs that are good for
only part of the year. To work in full force twelve months of the year guarantees workmen of ability,
builds up a permanent manufacturing organization, and continually improves the product—the men in
the factory, through uninterrupted service, become more familiar with the operations.
The factory must build, the sales department must sell, and the dealer must buy cars all the year
through, if each would enjoy the maximum profit to be derived from the business. If the retail buyer
will not consider purchasing except in "seasons," a campaign of education needs to be waged, proving
the all-the-year-around value of a car rather than the limited-season value. And while the educating is
being done, the manufacturer must build, and the dealer must buy, in anticipation of business.
We were the first to meet the problem in the automobile business. The selling of Ford cars is a
merchandising proposition. In the days when every car was built to order and 50 cars a month a big
output, it was reasonable to wait for the sale before ordering. The manufacturer waited for the order
before building.
We very shortly found that we could not do business on order. The factory could not be built large
enough—even were it desirable—to make between March and August all the cars that were ordered
during those months. Therefore, years ago began the campaign of education to demonstrate that a Ford
was not a summer luxury but a year-round necessity. Coupled with that came the education of the
dealer into the knowledge that even if he could not sell so many cars in winter as in summer it would
pay him to stock in winter for the summer and thus be able to make instant delivery. Both plans have
worked out; in most parts of the country cars are used almost as much in winter as in summer. It has
been found that they will run in snow, ice, or mud—in anything. Hence the winter sales are constantly
growing larger and the seasonal demand is in part lifted from the dealer. And he finds it profitable to
buy ahead in anticipation of needs. Thus we have no seasons in the plant; the production, up until the
last couple of years, has been continuous excepting for the annual shut downs for inventory. We have
had an interruption during the period of extreme depression but it was an interruption made necessary
in the process of readjusting ourselves to the market conditions.
In order to attain continuous production and hence a continuous turning over of money we have had to
plan our operations with extreme care. The plan of production is worked out very carefully each month
between the sales and production departments, with the object of producing enough cars so that those
in transit will take care of the orders in hand. Formerly, when we assembled and shipped cars, this was
of the highest importance because we had no place in which to store finished cars. Now we ship parts
instead of cars and assemble only those required for the Detroit district. That makes the planning no
less important, for if the production stream and the order stream are not approximately equal we
should be either jammed with unsold parts or behind in our orders. When you are turning out the parts
to make 4,000 cars a day, just a very little carelessness in overestimating orders will pile up a finished
inventory running into the millions. That makes the balancing of operations an exceedingly delicate
matter.
In order to earn the proper profit on our narrow margin we must have a rapid turnover. We make cars
to sell, not to store, and a month's unsold production would turn into a sum the interest on which alone
would be enormous. The production is planned a year ahead and the number of cars to be made in each
month of the year is scheduled, for of course it is a big problem to have the raw materials and such
parts as we still buy from the outside flowing in consonance with production. We can no more afford
to carry large stocks of finished than we can of raw material. Everything has to move in and move out.
And we have had some narrow escapes. Some years ago the plant of the Diamond Manufacturing
Company burned down. They were making radiator parts for us and the brass parts—tubings and
castings. We had to move quickly or take a big loss. We got together the heads of all our departments,
the pattern-makers and the draughtsmen. They worked from twenty-four to forty-eight hours on a
stretch. They made new patterns; the Diamond Company leased a plant and got some machinery in by
express. We furnished the other equipment for them and in twenty days they were shipping again. We
had enough stock on hand to carry us over, say, for seven or eight days, but that fire prevented us
shipping cars for ten or fifteen days. Except for our having stock ahead it would have held us up for
twenty days—and our expenses would have gone right on.
To repeat. The place in which to finance is the shop. It has never failed us, and once, when it was
thought that we were hard up for money, it served rather conclusively to demonstrate how much better
finance can be conducted from the inside than from the outside.
CHAPTER XII
MONEY—MASTER OR SERVANT?
In December, 1920, business the country over was marking time. More automobile plants were closed
than were open and quite a number of those which were closed were completely in the charge of
bankers. Rumours of bad financial condition were afloat concerning nearly every industrial company,
and I became interested when the reports persisted that the Ford Motor Company not only needed
money but could not get it. I have become accustomed to all kinds of rumours about our company—so
much so, that nowadays I rarely deny any sort of rumour. But these reports differed from all previous
ones. They were so exact and circumstantial. I learned that I had overcome my prejudice against
borrowing and that I might be found almost any day down in Wall Street, hat in hand, asking for
money. And rumour went even further and said that no one would give me money and that I might
have to break up and go out of business.
It is true that we did have a problem. In 1919 we had borrowed $70,000,000 on notes to buy the full
stock interest in the Ford Motor Company. On this we had $33,000,000 left to pay. We had
$18,000,000 in income taxes due or shortly to become due to the Government, and also we intended to
pay our usual bonus for the year to the workmen, which amounted to $7,000,000. Altogether, between
January 1st and April 18, 1921, we had payments ahead totaling $58,000,000. We had only
$20,000,000 in bank. Our balance sheet was more or less common knowledge and I suppose it was
taken for granted that we could not raise the $38,000,000 needed without borrowing. For that is quite a
large sum of money. Without the aid of Wall Street such a sum could not easily and quickly be raised.
We were perfectly good for the money. Two years before we had borrowed $70,000,000. And since
our whole property was unencumbered and we had no commercial debts, the matter of lending a large
sum to us would not ordinarily have been a matter of moment. In fact, it would have been good
banking business.
However, I began to see that our need for money was being industriously circulated as an evidence of
impending failure. Then I began to suspect that, although the rumours came in news dispatches from
all over the country, they might perhaps be traced to a single source. This belief was further
strengthened when we were informed that a very fat financial editor was at Battle Creek sending out
bulletins concerning the acuteness of our financial condition. Therefore, I took care not to deny a
single rumour. We had made our financial plans and they did not include borrowing money.
I cannot too greatly emphasize that the very worst time to borrow money is when the banking people
think that you need money. In the last chapter I outlined our financial principles. We simply applied
those principles. We planned a thorough house-cleaning.
Go back a bit and see what the conditions were. Along in the early part of 1920 came the first
indications that the feverish speculative business engendered by the war was not going to continue. A
few concerns that had sprung out of the war and had no real reason for existence failed. People slowed
down in their buying. Our own sales kept right along, but we knew that sooner or later they would
drop off. I thought seriously of cutting prices, but the costs of manufacturing everywhere were out of
control. Labour gave less and less in return for high wages. The suppliers of raw material refused even
to think of coming back to earth. The very plain warnings of the storm went quite unheeded.
In June our own sales began to be affected. They grew less and less each month from June on until
September. We had to do something to bring our product within the purchasing power of the public,
and not only that, we had to do something drastic enough to demonstrate to the public that we were
actually playing the game and not just shamming. Therefore in September we cut the price of the
touring car from $575 to $440. We cut the price far below the cost of production, for we were still
making from stock bought at boom prices. The cut created a considerable sensation. We received a
deal of criticism. It was said that we were disturbing conditions. That is exactly what we were trying to
do. We wanted to do our part in bringing prices from an artificial to a natural level. I am firmly of the
opinion that if at this time or earlier manufacturers and distributors had all made drastic cuts in their
prices and had put through thorough house-cleanings we should not have so long a business
depression. Hanging on in the hope of getting higher prices simply delayed adjustment. Nobody got
the higher prices they hoped for, and if the losses had been taken all at once, not only would the
productive and the buying powers of the country have become harmonized, but we should have been
saved this long period of general idleness. Hanging on in the hope of higher prices merely made the
losses greater, because those who hung on had to pay interest on their high-priced stocks and also lost
the profits they might have made by working on a sensible basis. Unemployment cut down wage
distribution and thus the buyer and the seller became more and more separated. There was a lot of
flurried talk of arranging to give vast credits to Europe—the idea being that thereby the high-priced
stocks might be palmed off. Of course the proposals were not put in any such crude fashion, and I
think that quite a lot of people sincerely believed that if large credits were extended abroad even
without a hope of the payment of either principal or interest, American business would somehow be
benefited. It is true that if these credits were taken by American banks, those who had high-priced
stocks might have gotten rid of them at a profit, but the banks would have acquired so much frozen
credit that they would have more nearly resembled ice houses than banks. I suppose it is natural to
hang on to the possibility of profits until the very last moment, but it is not good business.
Our own sales, after the cut, increased, but soon they began to fall off again. We were not sufficiently
within the purchasing power of the country to make buying easy. Retail prices generally had not
touched bottom. The public distrusted all prices. We laid our plans for another cut and we kept our
production around one hundred thousand cars a month. This production was not justified by our sales
but we wanted to have as much as possible of our raw material transformed into finished product
before we shut down. We knew that we would have to shut down in order to take an inventory and
clean house. We wanted to open with another big cut and to have cars on hand to supply the demand.
Then the new cars could be built out of material bought at lower prices. We determined that we were
going to get lower prices.
We shut down in December with the intention of opening again in about two weeks. We found so
much to do that actually we did not open for nearly six weeks. The moment that we shut down the
rumours concerning our financial condition became more and more active. I know that a great many
people hoped that we should have to go out after money—for, were we seeking money, then we should
have to come to terms. We did not ask for money. We did not want money. We had one offer of
money. An officer of a New York bank called on me with a financial plan which included a large loan
and in which also was an arrangement by which a representative of the bankers would act as treasurer
and take charge of the finance of the company. Those people meant well enough, I am quite sure. We
did not want to borrow money but it so happened that at the moment we were without a treasurer. To
that extent the bankers had envisaged our condition correctly. I asked my son Edsel to be treasurer as
well as president of the company. That fixed us up as to a treasurer, so there was really nothing at all
that the bankers could do for us.
Then we began our house-cleaning. During the war we had gone into many kinds of war work and had
thus been forced to depart from our principle of a single product. This had caused many new
departments to be added. The office force had expanded and much of the wastefulness of scattered
production had crept in. War work is rush work and is wasteful work. We began throwing out
everything that did not contribute to the production of cars.
The only immediate payment scheduled was the purely voluntary one of a seven-million-dollar bonus
to our workmen. There was no obligation to pay, but we wanted to pay on the first of January. That we
paid out of our cash on hand.
Throughout the country we have thirty-five branches. These are all assembling plants, but in twenty-
two of them parts are also manufactured. They had stopped the making of parts but they went on
assembling cars. At the time of shutting down we had practically no cars in Detroit. We had shipped
out all the parts, and during January the Detroit dealers actually had to go as far a field as Chicago and
Columbus to get cars for local needs. The branches shipped to each dealer, under his yearly quota,
enough cars to cover about a month's sales. The dealers worked hard on sales. During the latter part of
January we called in a skeleton organization of about ten thousand men, mostly foremen, sub-foremen,
and straw bosses, and we started Highland Park into production. We collected our foreign accounts
and sold our by-products.
Then we were ready for full production. And gradually into full production we went—on a profitable
basis. The house-cleaning swept out the waste that had both made the prices high and absorbed the
profit. We sold off the useless stuff. Before we had employed fifteen men per car per day. Afterward
we employed nine per car per day. This did not mean that six out of fifteen men lost their jobs. They
only ceased being unproductive. We made that cut by applying the rule that everything and everybody
must produce or get out.
We cut our office forces in halves and offered the office workers better jobs in the shops. Most of them
took the jobs. We abolished every order blank and every form of statistics that did not directly aid in
the production of a car. We had been collecting tons of statistics because they were interesting. But
statistics will not construct automobiles—so out they went.
We took out 60 per cent. of our telephone extensions. Only a comparatively few men in any
organization need telephones. We formerly had a foreman for every five men; now we have a foreman
for every twenty men. The other foremen are working on machines.
We cut the overhead charge from $146 a car to $93 a car, and when you realize what this means on
more than four thousand cars a day you will have an idea how, not by economy, not by wage-cutting,
but by the elimination of waste, it is possible to make an "impossible" price. Most important of all, we
found out how to use less money in our business by speeding up the turnover. And in increasing the
turnover rate, one of the most important factors was the Detroit, Toledo, & Ironton Railroad—which
we purchased. The railroad took a large place in the scheme of economy. To the road itself I have
given another chapter.
We discovered, after a little experimenting, that freight service could be improved sufficiently to
reduce the cycle of manufacture from twenty-two to fourteen days. That is, raw material could be
bought, manufactured, and the finished product put into the hands of the distributor in (roughly) 33 per
cent. less time than before. We had been carrying an inventory of around $60,000,000 to insure
uninterrupted production. Cutting down the time one third released $20,000,000, or $1,200,000 a year
in interest. Counting the finished inventory, we saved approximately $8,000,000 more—that is, we
were able to release $28,000,000 in capital and save the interest on that sum.
On January 1st we had $20,000,000. On April 1st we had $87,300,000, or $27,300,000 more than we
needed to wipe out all our indebtedness. That is what boring into the business did for us! This amount
came to us in these items:
Cash on hand, January $20,000,000

Stock on hand turned into cash, January 1 to April 1 24,700,000
Speeding up transit of goods released 28,000,000
Collected from agents in foreign countries 3,000,000
Sale of by-products 3,700,000
Sale of Liberty Bonds 7,900,000
TOTAL $87,300,000
Now I have told about all this not in the way of an exploit, but to point out how a business may find
resources within itself instead of borrowing, and also to start a little thinking as to whether the form of
our money may not put a premium on borrowing and thus give far too great a place in life to the
bankers.
We could have borrowed $40,000,000—more had we wanted to. Suppose we had borrowed, what
would have happened? Should we have been better fitted to go on with our business? Or worse fitted?
If we had borrowed we should not have been under the necessity of finding methods to cheapen
production. Had we been able to obtain the money at 6 per cent. flat—and we should in commissions
and the like have had to pay more than that—the interest charge alone on a yearly production of
500,000 cars would have amounted to about four dollars a car. Therefore we should now be without
the benefit of better production and loaded with a heavy debt. Our cars would probably cost about one
hundred dollars more than they do; hence we should have a smaller production, for we could not have
so many buyers; we should employ fewer men, and in short, should not be able to serve to the utmost.
You will note that the financiers proposed to cure by lending money and not by bettering methods.
They did not suggest putting in an engineer; they wanted to put in a treasurer.
And that is the danger of having bankers in business. They think solely in terms of money. They think
of a factory as making money, not goods. They want to watch the money, not the efficiency of
production. They cannot comprehend that a business never stands still, it must go forward or go back.
They regard a reduction in prices as a throwing away of profit instead of as a building of business.
Bankers play far too great a part in the conduct of industry. Most business men will privately admit
that fact. They will seldom publicly admit it because they are afraid of their bankers. It required less
skill to make a fortune dealing in money than dealing in production. The average successful banker is
by no means so intelligent and resourceful a man as is the average successful business man. Yet the
banker through his control of credit practically controls the average business man.
There has been a great reaching out by bankers in the last fifteen or twenty years—and especially since
the war—and the Federal Reserve System for a time put into their hands an almost limitless supply of
credit. The banker is, as I have noted, by training and because of his position, totally unsuited to the
conduct of industry. If, therefore, the controllers of credit have lately acquired this very large power, is
it not to be taken as a sign that there is something wrong with the financial system that gives to finance
instead of to service the predominant power in industry? It was not the industrial acumen of the
bankers that brought them into the management of industry. Everyone will admit that. They were
pushed there, willy-nilly, by the system itself. Therefore, I personally want to discover whether we are
operating under the best financial system.
Now, let me say at once that my objection to bankers has nothing to do with personalities. I am not
against bankers as such. We stand very much in need of thoughtful men, skilled in finance. The world
cannot go on without banking facilities. We have to have money. We have to have credit. Otherwise
the fruits of production could not be exchanged. We have to have capital. Without it there could be no
production. But whether we have based our banking and our credit on the right foundation is quite
another matter.
It is no part of my thought to attack our financial system. I am not in the position of one who has been
beaten by the system and wants revenge. It does not make the least difference to me personally what
bankers do because we have been able to manage our affairs without outside financial aid. My inquiry
is prompted by no personal motive whatsoever. I only want to know whether the greatest good is being
rendered to the greatest number.
No financial system is good which favors one class of producers over another. We want to discover
whether it is not possible to take away power which is not based on wealth creation. Any sort of class
legislation is pernicious. I think that the country's production has become so changed in its methods
that gold is not the best medium with which it may be measured, and that the gold standard as a control
of credit gives, as it is now (and I believe inevitably) administered, class advantage. The ultimate
check on credit is the amount of gold in the country, regardless of the amount of wealth in the country.
I am not prepared to dogmatize on the subject of money or credit. As far as money and credit are
concerned, no one as yet knows enough about them to dogmatize. The whole question will have to be
settled as all other questions of real importance have to be settled, and that is by cautious, well-
founded experiment. And I am not inclined to go beyond cautious experiments. We have to proceed
step by step and very carefully. The question is not political, it is economic, and I am perfectly certain
that helping the people to think on the question is wholly advantageous. They will not act without
adequate knowledge, and thus cause disaster, if a sincere effort is made to provide them with
knowledge. The money question has first place in multitudes of minds of all degrees or power. But a
glance at most of the cure-all systems shows how contradictory they are. The majority of them make
the assumption of honesty among mankind, to begin with, and that, of course, is a prime defect. Even
our present system would work splendidly if all men were honest. As a matter of fact, the whole
money question is 95 per cent. human nature; and your successful system must check human nature,
not depend upon it.
The people are thinking about the money question; and if the money masters have any information
which they think the people ought to have to prevent them going astray, now is the time to give it. The
days are fast slipping away when the fear of credit curtailment will avail, or when wordy slogans will
affright. The people are naturally conservative. They are more conservative than the financiers. Those
who believe that the people are so easily led that they would permit printing presses to run off money
like milk tickets do not understand them. It is the innate conservation of the people that has kept our
money good in spite of the fantastic tricks which the financiers play—and which they cover up with
high technical terms.
The people are on the side of sound money. They are so unalterably on the side of sound money that it
is a serious question how they would regard the system under which they live, if they once knew what
the initiated can do with it.
The present money system is not going to be changed by speech-making or political sensationalism or
economic experiment. It is going to change under the pressure of conditions—conditions that we
cannot control and pressure that we cannot control. These conditions are now with us; that pressure is
now upon us.
The people must be helped to think naturally about money. They must be told what it is, and what
makes it money, and what are the possible tricks of the present system which put nations and peoples
under control of the few.
Money, after all, is extremely simple. It is a part of our transportation system. It is a simple and direct
method of conveying goods from one person to another. Money is in itself most admirable. It is
essential. It is not intrinsically evil. It is one of the most useful devices in social life. And when it does
what it was intended to do, it is all help and no hindrance.
But money should always be money. A foot is always twelve inches, but when is a dollar a dollar? If
ton weights changed in the coal yard, and peck measures changed in the grocery, and yard sticks were
to-day 42 inches and to-morrow 33 inches (by some occult process called "exchange") the people
would mighty soon remedy that. When a dollar is not always a dollar, when the 100-cent dollar
becomes the 65-cent dollar, and then the 50-cent dollar, and then the 47-cent dollar, as the good old
American gold and silver dollars did, what is the use of yelling about "cheap money," "depreciated
money"? A dollar that stays 100 cents is as necessary as a pound that stays 16 ounces and a yard that
stays 36 inches.
The bankers who do straight banking should regard themselves as naturally the first men to probe and
understand our monetary system—instead of being content with the mastery of local banking-house
methods; and if they would deprive the gamblers in bank balances of the name of "banker" and oust
them once for all from the place of influence which that name gives them, banking would be restored
and established as the public service it ought to be, and the iniquities of the present monetary system
and financial devices would be lifted from the shoulders of the people.
There is an "if" here, of course. But it is not insurmountable. Affairs are coming to a jam as it is, and if
those who possess technical facility do not engage to remedy the case, those who lack that facility may
attempt it. Nothing is more foolish than for any class to assume that progress is an attack upon it.
Progress is only a call made upon it to lend its experience for the general advancement. It is only those
who are unwise who will attempt to obstruct progress and thereby become its victims. All of us are
here together, all of us must go forward together; it is perfectly silly for any man or class to take
umbrage at the stirring of progress. If financiers feel that progress is only the restlessness of weak-
minded persons, if they regard all suggestions of betterment as a personal slap, then they are taking the
part which proves more than anything else could their unfitness to continue in their leadership.
If the present faulty system is more profitable to a financier than a more perfect system would be, and
if that financier values his few remaining years of personal profits more highly than he would value the
honour of making a contribution to the life of the world by helping to erect a better system, then there
is no way of preventing a clash of interests. But it is fair to say to the selfish financial interests that, if
their fight is waged to perpetuate a system just because it profits them, then their fight is already lost.
Why should finance fear? The world will still be here. Men will do business with one another. There
will be money and there will be need of masters of the mechanism of money. Nothing is going to
depart but the knots and tangles. There will be some readjustments, of course. Banks will no longer be
the masters of industry. They will be the servants of industry. Business will control money instead of
money controlling business. The ruinous interest system will be greatly modified. Banking will not be
a risk, but a service. Banks will begin to do much more for the people than they do now, and instead of
being the most expensive businesses in the world to manage, and the most highly profitable in the
matter of dividends, they will become less costly, and the profits of their operation will go to the
community which they serve.
Two facts of the old order are fundamental. First: that within the nation itself the tendency of financial
control is toward its largest centralized banking institutions—either a government bank or a closely
allied group of private financiers. There is always in every nation a definite control of credit by private
or semi-public interests. Second: in the world as a whole the same centralizing tendency is operative.
An American credit is under control of New York interests, as before the war world credit was
controlled in London—the British pound sterling was the standard of exchange for the world's trade.
Two methods of reform are open to us, one beginning at the bottom and one beginning at the top. The
latter is the more orderly way, the former is being tried in Russia. If our reform should begin at the top
it will require a social vision and an altruistic fervour of a sincerity and intensity which is wholly
inconsistent with selfish shrewdness.
The wealth of the world neither consists in nor is adequately represented by the money of the world.
Gold itself is not a valuable commodity. It is no more wealth than hat checks are hats. But it can be so
manipulated, as the sign of wealth, as to give its owners or controllers the whip-hand over the credit
which producers of real wealth require. Dealing in money, the commodity of exchange, is a very
lucrative business. When money itself becomes an article of commerce to be bought and sold before
real wealth can be moved or exchanged, the usurers and speculators are thereby permitted to lay a tax
on production. The hold which controllers of money are able to maintain on productive forces is seen
to be more powerful when it is remembered that, although money is supposed to represent the real
wealth of the world, there is always much more wealth than there is money, and real wealth is often
compelled to wait upon money, thus leading to that most paradoxical situation—a world filled with
wealth but suffering want.
These facts are not merely fiscal, to be cast into figures and left there. They are instinct with human
destiny and they bleed. The poverty of the world is seldom caused by lack of goods but by a "money
stringency." Commercial competition between nations, which leads to international rivalry and ill-will,
which in their turn breed wars— these are some of the human significations of these facts. Thus
poverty and war, two great preventable evils, grow on a single stem.
Let us see if a beginning toward a better method cannot be made.

CHAPTER XIII
WHY BE POOR?
Poverty springs from a number of sources, the more important of which are controllable. So does
special privilege. I think it is entirely feasible to abolish both poverty and special privilege—and there
can be no question but that their abolition is desirable. Both are unnatural, but it is work, not law, to
which we must look for results.
By poverty I mean the lack of reasonably sufficient food, housing, and clothing for an individual or a
family. There will have to be differences in the grades of sustenance. Men are not equal in mentality or
in physique. Any plan which starts with the assumption that men are or ought to be equal is unnatural
and therefore unworkable. There can be no feasible or desirable process of leveling down. Such a
course only promotes poverty by making it universal instead of exceptional. Forcing the efficient
producer to become inefficient does not make the inefficient producer more efficient. Poverty can be
done away with only by plenty, and we have now gone far enough along in the science of production
to be able to see, as a natural development, the day when production and distribution will be so
scientific that all may have according to ability and industry.
The extreme Socialists went wide of the mark in their reasoning that industry would inevitably crush
the worker. Modern industry is gradually lifting the worker and the world. We only need to know more
about planning and methods. The best results can and will be brought about by individual initiative and
ingenuity—by intelligent individual leadership. The government, because it is essentially negative,
cannot give positive aid to any really constructive programme. It can give negative aid—by removing
obstructions to progress and by ceasing to be a burden upon the community.
The underlying causes of poverty, as I can see them, are essentially due to the bad adjustment between
production and distribution, in both industry and agriculture—between the source of power and its
application. The wastes due to lack of adjustment are stupendous. All of these wastes must fall before
intelligent leadership consecrated to service. So long as leadership thinks more of money than it does
of service, the wastes will continue. Waste is prevented by far-sighted not by short-sighted men. Short-
sighted men think first of money. They cannot see waste. They think of service as altruistic instead of
as the most practical thing in the world. They cannot get far enough away from the little things to see
the big things—to see the biggest thing of all, which is that opportunist production from a purely
money standpoint is the least profitable.
Service can be based upon altruism, but that sort of service is not usually the best. The sentimental
trips up the practical.
It is not that the industrial enterprises are unable fairly to distribute a share of the wealth which they
create. It is simply that the waste is so great that there is not a sufficient share for everyone engaged,
notwithstanding the fact that the product is usually sold at so high a price as to restrict its fullest
consumption.
Take some of the wastes. Take the wastes of power. The Mississippi Valley is without coal. Through
its centre pour many millions of potential horsepower—the Mississippi River. But if the people by its
banks want power or heat they buy coal that has been hauled hundreds of miles and consequently has
to be sold at far above its worth as heat or power. Or if they cannot afford to buy this expensive coal,
they go out and cut down trees, thereby depriving themselves of one of the great conservers of water
power. Until recently they never thought of the power at hand which, at next to nothing beyond the
initial cost, could heat, light, cook, and work for the huge population which that valley is destined to
support.
The cure of poverty is not in personal economy but in better production. The "thrift" and "economy"
ideas have been overworked. The word "economy" represents a fear. The great and tragic fact of waste
is impressed on a mind by some circumstance, usually of a most materialistic kind. There comes a
violent reaction against extravagance—the mind catches hold of the idea of "economy." But it only
flies from a greater to a lesser evil; it does not make the full journey from error to truth.
Economy is the rule of half-alive minds. There can be no doubt that it is better than waste; neither can
there be any doubt that it is not as good as use. People who pride themselves on their economy take it
as a virtue. But what is more pitiable than a poor, pinched mind spending the rich days and years
clutching a few bits of metal? What can be fine about paring the necessities of life to the very quick?
We all know "economical people" who seem to be niggardly even about the amount of air they breathe
and the amount of appreciation they will allow themselves to give to anything. They shrivel—body
and soul. Economy is waste: it is waste of the juices of life, the sap of living. For there are two kinds of
waste—that of the prodigal who throws his substance away in riotous living, and that of the sluggard
who allows his substance to rot from non-use. The rigid economizer is in danger of being classed with
the sluggard. Extravagance is usually a reaction from suppression of expenditure. Economy is likely to
be a reaction from extravagance.
Everything was given us to use. There is no evil from which we suffer that did not come about through
misuse. The worst sin we can commit against the things of our common life is to misuse them.
"Misuse" is the wider term. We like to say "waste," but waste is only one phase of misuse. All waste is
misuse; all misuse is waste.
It is possible even to overemphasize the saving habit. It is proper and desirable that everyone have a
margin; it is really wasteful not to have one—if you can have one. But it can be overdone. We teach
children to save their money. As an attempt to counteract thoughtless and selfish expenditure, that has
a value. But it is not positive; it does not lead the child out into the safe and useful avenues of self-
expression or self-expenditure. To teach a child to invest and use is better than to teach him to save.
Most men who are laboriously saving a few dollars would do better to invest those few dollars—first
in themselves, and then in some useful work. Eventually they would have more to save. Young men
ought to invest rather than save. They ought to invest in themselves to increase creative value; after
they have taken themselves to the peak of usefulness, then will be time enough to think of laying aside,
as a fixed policy, a certain substantial share of income. You are not "saving" when you prevent
yourself from becoming more productive. You are really taking away from your ultimate capital; you
are reducing the value of one of nature's investments. The principle of use is the true guide. Use is
positive, active, life-giving. Use is alive. Use adds to the sum of good.
Personal want may be avoided without changing the general condition. Wage increases, price
increases, profit increases, other kinds of increases designed to bring more money here or money there,
are only attempts of this or that class to get out of the fire—regardless of what may happen to everyone
else. There is a foolish belief that if only the money can be gotten, somehow the storm can be
weathered. Labour believes that if it can get more wages, it can weather the storm. Capital thinks that
if it can get more profits, it can weather the storm. There is a pathetic faith in what money can do.
Money is very useful in normal times, but money has no more value than the people put into it by
production, and it can be so misused. It can be so superstitiously worshipped as a substitute for real
wealth as to destroy its value altogether.
The idea persists that there exists an essential conflict between industry and the farm. There is no such
conflict. It is nonsense to say that because the cities are overcrowded everybody ought to go back to
the farm. If everybody did so farming would soon decline as a satisfactory occupation. It is not more
sensible for everyone to flock to the manufacturing towns. If the farms be deserted, of what use are
manufacturers? A reciprocity can exist between farming and manufacturing. The manufacturer can
give the farmer what he needs to be a good farmer, and the farmer and other producers of raw
materials can give the manufacturer what he needs to be a good manufacturer. Then with
transportation as a messenger, we shall have a stable and a sound system built on service. If we live in
smaller communities where the tension of living is not so high, and where the products of the fields
and gardens can be had without the interference of so many profiteers, there will be little poverty or
unrest.
Look at this whole matter of seasonal work. Take building as an example of a seasonal trade. What a
waste of power it is to allow builders to hibernate through the winter, waiting for the building season
to come around!
And what an equal waste of skill it is to force experienced artisans who have gone into factories to
escape the loss of the winter season to stay in the factory jobs through the building season because they
are afraid they may not get their factory places back in the winter. What a waste this all-year system
has been! If the farmer could get away from the shop to till his farm in the planting, growing, and
harvesting seasons (they are only a small part of the year, after all), and if the builder could get away
from the shop to ply his useful trade in its season, how much better they would be, and how much
more smoothly the world would proceed.
Suppose we all moved outdoors every spring and summer and lived the wholesome life of the outdoors
for three or four months! We could not have "slack times."
The farm has its dull season. That is the time for the farmer to come into the factory and help produce
the things he needs to till the farm. The factory also has its dull season. That is the time for the
workmen to go out to the land to help produce food. Thus we might take the slack out of work and
restore the balance between the artificial and the natural.
But not the least benefit would be the more balanced view of life we should thus obtain. The mixing of
the arts is not only beneficial in a material way, but it makes for breadth of mind and fairness of
judgment. A great deal of our unrest to-day is the result of narrow, prejudiced judgment. If our work
were more diversified, if we saw more sides of life, if we saw how necessary was one factor to
another, we should be more balanced. Every man is better for a period of work under the open sky.
It is not at all impossible. What is desirable and right is never impossible. It would only mean a little
teamwork—a little less attention to greedy ambition and a little more attention to life.
Those who are rich find it desirable to go away for three or four months a year and dawdle in idleness
around some fancy winter or summer resort. The rank and file of the American people would not waste
their time that way even if they could. But they would provide the team-work necessary for an
outdoor, seasonal employment.
It is hardly possible to doubt that much of the unrest we see about us is the result of unnatural modes
of life. Men who do the same thing continuously the year around and are shut away from the health of
the sun and the spaciousness of the great out of doors are hardly to be blamed if they see matters in a
distorted light. And that applies equally to the capitalist and the worker.
What is there in life that should hamper normal and wholesome modes of living? And what is there in
industry incompatible with all the arts receiving in their turn the attention of those qualified to serve in
them? It may be objected that if the forces of industry were withdrawn from the shops every summer it
would impede production. But we must look at the matter from a universal point of view. We must
consider the increased energy of the industrial forces after three or four months in outdoor work. We
must also consider the effect on the cost of living which would result from a general return to the
fields.
We have, as I indicated in a previous chapter, been working toward this combination of farm and
factory and with entirely satisfactory results. At Northville, not far from Detroit, we have a little
factory making valves. It is a little factory, but it makes a great many valves. Both the management
and the mechanism of the plant are comparatively simple because it makes but one thing. We do not
have to search for skilled employees. The skill is in the machine. The people of the countryside can
work in the plant part of the time and on the farm part of the time, for mechanical farming is not very
laborious. The plant power is derived from water.
Another plant on a somewhat larger scale is in building at Flat Rock, about fifteen miles from Detroit.
We have dammed the river. The dam also serves as a bridge for the Detroit, Toledo & Ironton
Railway, which was in need of a new bridge at that point, and a road for the public—all in one
construction. We are going to make our glass at this point. The damming of the river gives sufficient
water for the floating to us of most of our raw material. It also gives us our power through a
hydroelectric plant. And, being well out in the midst of the farming country, there can be no possibility
of crowding or any of the ills incident to too great a concentration of population. The men will have
plots of ground or farms as well as their jobs in the factory, and these can be scattered over fifteen or
twenty miles surrounding—for of course nowadays the workingman can come to the shop in an
automobile. There we shall have the combination of agriculture and industrialism and the entire
absence of all the evils of concentration.
The belief that an industrial country has to concentrate its industries is not, in my opinion, well-
founded. That is only a stage in industrial development. As we learn more about manufacturing and
learn to make articles with interchangeable parts, then those parts can be made under the best possible
conditions. And these best possible conditions, as far as the employees are concerned, are also the best
possible conditions from the manufacturing standpoint. One could not put a great plant on a little
stream. One can put a small plant on a little stream, and the combination of little plants, each making a
single part, will make the whole cheaper than a vast factory would. There are exceptions, as where
casting has to be done. In such case, as at River Rouge, we want to combine the making of the metal
and the casting of it and also we want to use all of the waste power. This requires a large investment
and a considerable force of men in one place. But such combinations are the exception rather than the
rule, and there would not be enough of them seriously to interfere with the process of breaking down
the concentration of industry.
Industry will decentralize. There is no city that would be rebuilt as it is, were it destroyed—which fact
is in itself a confession of our real estimate of our cities. The city had a place to fill, a work to do.
Doubtless the country places would not have approximated their livableness had it not been for the
cities. By crowding together, men have learned some secrets. They would never have learned them
alone in the country. Sanitation, lighting, social organization—all these are products of men's
experience in the city. But also every social ailment from which we to-day suffer originated and
centres in the big cities. You will find the smaller communities living along in unison with the seasons,
having neither extreme poverty nor wealth—none of the violent plagues of upheave and unrest which
afflict our great populations. There is something about a city of a million people which is untamed and
threatening. Thirty miles away, happy and contented villages read of the ravings of the city! A great
city is really a helpless mass. Everything it uses is carried to it. Stop transport and the city stops. It
lives off the shelves of stores. The shelves produce nothing. The city cannot feed, clothe, warm, or
house itself. City conditions of work and living are so artificial that instincts sometimes rebel against
their unnaturalness.
And finally, the overhead expense of living or doing business in the great cities is becoming so large as
to be unbearable. It places so great a tax upon life that there is no surplus over to live on. The
politicians have found it easy to borrow money and they have borrowed to the limit. Within the last
decade the expense of running every city in the country has tremendously increased. A good part of
that expense is for interest upon money borrowed; the money has gone either into non-productive
brick, stone, and mortar, or into necessities of city life, such as water supplies and sewage systems at
far above a reasonable cost. The cost of maintaining these works, the cost of keeping in order great
masses of people and traffic is greater than the advantages derived from community life. The modern
city has been prodigal, it is to-day bankrupt, and to-morrow it will cease to be.
The provision of a great amount of cheap and convenient power—not all at once, but as it may be used
—will do more than anything else to bring about the balancing of life and the cutting of the waste
which breeds poverty. There is no single source of power. It may be that generating electricity by a
steam plant at the mine mouth will be the most economical method for one community. Hydro-electric
power may be best for another community. But certainly in every community there ought to be a
central station to furnish cheap power—it ought to be held as essential as a railway or a water supply.
And we could have every great source of power harnessed and working for the common good were it
not that the expense of obtaining capital stands in the way. I think that we shall have to revise some of
our notions about capital.
Capital that a business makes for itself, that is employed to expand the workman's opportunity and
increase his comfort and prosperity, and that is used to give more and more men work, at the same
time reducing the cost of service to the public—that sort of capital, even though it be under single
control, is not a menace to humanity. It is a working surplus held in trust and daily use for the benefit
of all. The holder of such capital can scarcely regard it as a personal reward. No man can view such a
surplus as his own, for he did not create it alone. It is the joint product of his whole organization. The
owner's idea may have released all the energy and direction, but certainly it did not supply all the
energy and direction. Every workman was a partner in the creation. No business can possibly be
considered only with reference to to-day and to the individuals engaged in it. It must have the means to
carry on. The best wages ought to be paid. A proper living ought to be assured every participant in the
business—no matter what his part. But, for the sake of that business's ability to support those who
work in it, a surplus has to be held somewhere. The truly honest manufacturer holds his surplus profits
in that trust. Ultimately it does not matter where this surplus be held nor who controls it; it is its use
that matters.
Capital that is not constantly creating more and better jobs is more useless than sand. Capital that is not
constantly making conditions of daily labour better and the reward of daily labour more just, is not
fulfilling its highest function. The highest use of capital is not to make more money, but to make
money do more service for the betterment of life. Unless we in our industries are helping to solve the
social problem, we are not doing our principal work. We are not fully serving.
CHAPTER XIV
THE TRACTOR AND POWER FARMING
It is not generally known that our tractor, which we call the "Fordson," was put into production about a
year before we had intended, because of the Allies' war-time food emergency, and that all of our early
production (aside, of course, from the trial and experimental machines) went directly to England. We
sent in all five thousand tractors across the sea in the critical 1917-18 period when the submarines
were busiest. Every one of them arrived safely, and officers of the British Government have been good
enough to say that without their aid England could scarcely have met its food crisis.
It was these tractors, run mostly by women, that ploughed up the old estates and golf courses and let
all England be planted and cultivated without taking away from the fighting man power or crippling
the forces in the munitions factories.
It came about in this way: The English food administration, about the time that we entered the war in
1917, saw that, with the German submarines torpedoing a freighter almost every day, the already low
supply of shipping was going to be totally inadequate to carry the American troops across the seas, to
carry the essential munitions for these troops and the Allies, to carry the food for the fighting forces,
and at the same time carry enough food for the home population of England. It was then that they
began shipping out of England the wives and families of the colonials and made plans for the growing
of crops at home. The situation was a grave one. There were not enough draft animals in all England to
plough and cultivate land to raise crops in sufficient volume to make even a dent in the food imports.
Power farming was scarcely known, for the English farms were not, before the war, big enough to
warrant the purchase of heavy, expensive farm machinery, and especially with agricultural labour so
cheap and plentiful. Various concerns in England made tractors, but they were heavy affairs and
mostly run by steam. There were not enough of them to go around. More could not easily be made, for
all the factories were working on munitions, and even if they had been made they were too big and
clumsy for the average field and in addition required the management of engineers. We had put
together several tractors at our Manchester plant for demonstration purposes. They had been made in
the United States and merely assembled in England. The Board of Agriculture requested the Royal
Agricultural Society to make a test of these tractors and report. This is what they reported:
At the request of the Royal Agricultural Society of England, we have examined two Ford tractors,
rated at 25 h. p., at work ploughing:
First, cross-ploughing a fallow of strong land in a dirty condition, and subsequently in a field of lighter
land which had seeded itself down into rough grass, and which afforded every opportunity of testing
the motor on the level and on a steep hill.
In the first trial, a 2-furrow Oliver plough was used, ploughing on an average 5 inches deep with a 16-
inch wide furrow; a 3-furrow Cockshutt plough was also used at the same depth with the breast pitched
10 inches.
In the second trial, the 3-furrow plough was used, ploughing an average of 6 inches deep.
In both cases the motor did its work with ease, and on a measured acre the time occupied was 1 hour
30 minutes, with a consumption of 2 gallons of paraffin per acre.
These results we consider very satisfactory.
The ploughs were not quite suitable to the land, and the tractors, consequently, were working at some
disadvantage.
The total weight of the tractor fully loaded with fuel and water, as weighed by us, was 23 1/4 cwts.
The tractor is light for its power, and, consequently, light on the land, is easily handled, turns in a small
circle, and leaves a very narrow headland.
The motor is quickly started up from cold on a small supply of petrol.
After these trials we proceeded to Messrs. Ford's works at Trafford Park, Manchester, where one of the
motors had been sent to be dismantled and inspected in detail.
We find the design of ample strength, and the work of first-rate quality. We consider the driving-
wheels rather light, and we understand that a new and stronger pattern is to be supplied in future.
The tractor is designed purely for working on the land, and the wheels, which are fitted with spuds,
should be provided with some protection to enable them to travel on the road when moving from farm
to farm.
Bearing the above points in mind, we recommend, under existing circumstances, that steps be taken to
construct immediately as many of these tractors as possible.
The report was signed by Prof. W. E. Dalby and F. S. Courtney, engineering; R. N. Greaves,
engineering and agriculture; Robert W. Hobbs and Henry Overman, agriculture; Gilbert Greenall,
honorary directors, and John E. Cross, steward.
Almost immediately after the filing of that report we received the following wire:
Have not received anything definite concerning shipment necessary steel and plant for Cork factory.
Under best circumstances however Cork factory production could not be available before next spring.
The need for food production in England is imperative and large quantity of tractors must be available
at earliest possible date for purpose breaking up existing grass land and ploughing for Fall wheat. Am
requested by high authorities to appeal to Mr. Ford for help. Would you be willing to send Sorensen
and others with drawings of everything necessary, loaning them to British Government so that parts
can be manufactured over here and assembled in Government factories under Sorensen's guidance?
Can assure you positively this suggestion is made in national interest and if carried out will be done by
the Government for the people with no manufacturing or capitalist interest invested and no profit being
made by any interests whatever. The matter is very urgent. Impossible to ship anything adequate from
America because many thousand tractors must be provided. Ford Tractor considered best and only
suitable design. Consequently national necessity entirely dependent Mr. Ford's design. My work
prevents me coming America to present the proposal personally. Urge favorable consideration and
immediate decision because every day is of vital importance. You may rely on manufacturing facility
for production here under strictest impartial Government control. Would welcome Sorensen and any
and every other assistance and guidance you can furnish from America. Cable reply, Perry, Care of
Harding "Prodome," London.
PRODOME.
I understand that its sending was directed by the British Cabinet. We at once cabled our entire
willingness to lend the drawings, the benefit of what experience we had to date, and whatever men
might be necessary to get production under way, and on the next ship sent Charles E. Sorensen with
full drawings. Mr. Sorensen had opened the Manchester plant and was familiar with English
conditions. He was in charge of the manufacture of tractors in this country.
Mr. Sorensen started at work with the British officials to the end of having the parts made and
assembled in England. Many of the materials which we used were special and could not be obtained in
England. All of their factories equipped for doing casting and machine work were filled with munition
orders. It proved to be exceedingly difficult for the Ministry to get tenders of any kind. Then came
June and a series of destructive air raids on London. There was a crisis. Something had to be done, and
finally, after passing to and fro among half the factories of England, our men succeeded in getting the
tenders lodged with the Ministry.
Lord Milner exhibited these tenders to Mr. Sorensen. Taking the best of them the price per tractor
came to about $1,500 without any guarantee of delivery.
"That price is out of all reason," said Mr. Sorensen,
"These should not cost more than $700 apiece."

"Can you make five thousand at that price?" asked Lord Milner.
"Yes," answered Mr. Sorensen.
"How long will it take you to deliver them?"
"We will start shipping within sixty days."
They signed a contract on the spot, which, among other things, provided for an advance payment of 25
per cent. of the total sum. Mr. Sorensen cabled us what he had done and took the next boat home. The
25 five per cent. payment was, by the way, not touched by us until after the entire contract was
completed: we deposited it in a kind of trust fund.
The tractor works was not ready to go into production. The Highland Park plant might have been
adapted, but every machine in it was going day and night on essential war work. There was only one
thing to do. We ran up an emergency extension to our plant at Dearborn, equipped it with machinery
that was ordered by telegraph and mostly came by express, and in less than sixty days the first tractors
were on the docks in New York in the hands of the British authorities. They delayed in getting cargo
space, but on December 6, 1917, we received this cable:
London, December 5, 1917.
SORENSEN,
Fordson, F. R. Dearborn.
First tractors arrived, when will Smith and others leave? Cable.
PERRY.
The entire shipment of five thousand tractors went through within three months and that is why the
tractors were being used in England long before they were really known in the United States.
The planning of the tractor really antedated that of the motor car. Out on the farm my first experiments
were with tractors, and it will be remembered that I was employed for some time by a manufacturer of
steam tractors—the big heavy road and thresher engines. But I did not see any future for the large
tractors. They were too expensive for the small farm, required too much skill to operate, and were
much too heavy as compared with the pull they exerted. And anyway, the public was more interested
in being carried than in being pulled; the horseless carriage made a greater appeal to the imagination.
And so it was that I practically dropped work upon a tractor until the automobile was in production.
With the automobile on the farms, the tractor became a necessity. For then the farmers had been
introduced to power.
The farmer does not stand so much in need of new tools as of power to run the tools that he has. I have
followed many a weary mile behind a plough and I know all the drudgery of it. What a waste it is for a
human being to spend hours and days behind a slowly moving team of horses when in the same time a
tractor could do six times as much work! It is no wonder that, doing everything slowly and by hand,
the average farmer has not been able to earn more than a bare living while farm products are never as
plentiful and cheap as they ought to be.
As in the automobile, we wanted power—not weight. The weight idea was firmly fixed in the minds of
tractor makers. It was thought that excess weight meant excess pulling power—that the machine could
not grip unless it were heavy. And this in spite of the fact that a cat has not much weight and is a pretty
good climber. I have already set out my ideas on weight. The only kind of tractor that I thought worth
working on was one that would be light, strong, and so simple that any one could run it. Also it had to
be so cheap that any one could buy it. With these ends in view, we worked for nearly fifteen years on a
design and spent some millions of dollars in experiments. We followed exactly the same course as
with the automobile. Each part had to be as strong as it was possible to make it, the parts had to be few
in number, and the whole had to admit of quantity production. We had some thought that perhaps the
automobile engine might be used and we conducted a few experiments with it. But finally we became
convinced that the kind of tractor we wanted and the automobile had practically nothing in common. It
was the intention from the beginning that the tractor should be made as a separate undertaking from
the automobile and in a distinct plant. No plant is big enough to make two articles.
The automobile is designed to carry; the tractor is designed to pull—to climb. And that difference in
function made all the difference in the world in construction. The hard problem was to get bearings
that would stand up against the heavy pull. We finally got them and a construction which seems to
give the best average performance under all conditions. We fixed upon a four-cylinder engine that is
started by gasoline but runs thereafter on kerosene. The lightest weight that we could attain with
strength was 2,425 pounds. The grip is in the lugs on the driving wheels—as in the claws of the cat.
In addition to its strictly pulling functions, the tractor, to be of the greatest service, had also to be
designed for work as a stationary engine so that when it was not out on the road or in the fields it might
be hitched up with a belt to run machinery. In short, it had to be a compact, versatile power plant. And
that it has been. It has not only ploughed, harrowed, cultivated, and reaped, but it has also threshed, run
grist mills, saw mills, and various other sorts of mills, pulled stumps, ploughed snow, and done about
everything that a plant of moderate power could do from sheep-shearing to printing a newspaper. It has
been fitted with heavy tires to haul on roads, with sledge runners for the woods and ice, and with
rimmed wheels to run on rails. When the shops in Detroit were shut down by coal shortage, we got out
the Dearborn Independent by sending a tractor to the electro-typing factory—stationing the tractor in
the alley, sending up a belt four stories, and making the plates by tractor power. Its use in ninety-five
distinct lines of service has been called to our attention, and probably we know only a fraction of the
uses.
The mechanism of the tractor is even more simple than that of the automobile and it is manufactured in
exactly the same fashion. Until the present year, the production has been held back by the lack of a
suitable factory. The first tractors had been made in the plant at Dearborn which is now used as an
experimental station. That was not large enough to affect the economies of large-scale production and
it could not well be enlarged because the design was to make the tractors at the River Rouge plant, and
that, until this year, was not in full operation.
Now that plant is completed for the making of tractors. The work flows exactly as with the
automobiles. Each part is a separate departmental undertaking and each part as it is finished joins the
conveyor system which leads it to its proper initial assembly and eventually into the final assembly.
Everything moves and there is no skilled work. The capacity of the present plant is one million tractors
a year. That is the number we expect to make—for the world needs inexpensive, general-utility power
plants more now than ever before—and also it now knows enough about machinery to want such
plants.
The first tractors, as I have said, went to England. They were first offered in the United States in 1918
at $750. In the next year, with the higher costs, the price had to be made $885; in the middle of the
year it was possible again to make the introductory price of $750. In 1920 we charged $790; in the
next year we were sufficiently familiar with the production to begin cutting. The price came down to
$625 and then in 1922 with the River Rouge plant functioning we were able to cut to $395. All of
which shows what getting into scientific production will do to a price. Just as I have no idea how
cheaply the Ford automobile can eventually be made, I have no idea how cheaply the tractor can
eventually be made.
It is important that it shall be cheap. Otherwise power will not go to all the farms. And they must all of
them have power. Within a few years a farm depending solely on horse and hand power will be as
much of a curiosity as a factory run by a treadmill. The farmer must either take up power or go out of
business. The cost figures make this inevitable. During the war the Government made a test of a
Fordson tractor to see how its costs compared with doing the work with horses. The figures on the
tractor were taken at the high price plus freight. The depreciation and repair items are not so great as
the report sets them forth, and even if they were, the prices are cut in halves which would therefore cut
the depreciation and repair charge in halves. These are the figures:
COST, FORDSON, $880. WEARING LIFE, 4,800 HOURS AT 4/5 ACRES PER HOUR, 3,840 ACRES
3,840 acres at $880; depreciation per acre .221
Repairs for 3,840 acres, $100; per acre .026
Fuel cost, kerosene at 19 cents; 2 gal. per acre .38
1 gal. oil per 8 acres; per acre .075
Driver, $2 per day, 8 acres; per acre .25

—-
Cost of ploughing with Fordson; per acre. .95
8 HORSES COST, $1,200. WORKING LIFE, 5,000 HOURS AT 4/5 ACRE PER HOUR, 4,000 ACRES
4,000 acres at $1,200, depreciation of horses, per acre. . . . 30 Feed per horse, 40
cents (100 working days) per acre . . . . . 40 Feed per horse, 10 cents a day (265 idle
days) per acre. . . 2.65 Two drivers, two gang ploughs, at $2 each per day, per acre.
. 50 —— Cost of ploughing with horses; per acre. . . . . . . . . . . 1.46
At present costs, an acre would run about 40 cents only two cents representing depreciation and
repairs. But this does not take account of the time element. The ploughing is done in about one fourth
the time, with only the physical energy used to steer the tractor. Ploughing has become a matter of
motoring across a field.
Farming in the old style is rapidly fading into a picturesque memory. This does not mean that work is
going to remove from the farm. Work cannot be removed from any life that is productive. But power-
farming does mean this—drudgery is going to be removed from the farm. Power-farming is simply
taking the burden from flesh and blood and putting it on steel. We are in the opening years of power-
farming. The motor car wrought a revolution in modern farm life, not because it was a vehicle, but
because it had power. Farming ought to be something more than a rural occupation. It ought to be the
business of raising food. And when it does become a business the actual work of farming the average
sort of farm can be done in twenty-four days a year. The other days can be given over to other kinds of
business. Farming is too seasonal an occupation to engage all of a man's time.
As a food business, farming will justify itself as a business if it raises food in sufficient quantity and
distributes it under such conditions as will enable every family to have enough food for its reasonable
needs. There could not be a food trust if we were to raise such overwhelming quantities of all kinds of
food as to make manipulation and exploitation impossible. The farmer who limits his planting plays
into the hands of the speculators.
And then, perhaps, we shall witness a revival of the small flour-milling business. It was an evil day
when the village flour mill disappeared. Cooperative farming will become so developed that we shall
see associations of farmers with their own packing houses in which their own hogs will be turned into
ham and bacon, and with their own flour mills in which their grain will be turned into commercial
foodstuffs.
Why a steer raised in Texas should be brought to Chicago and then served in Boston is a question that
cannot be answered as long as all the steers the city needs could be raised near Boston. The
centralization of food manufacturing industries, entailing enormous costs for transportation and
organization, is too wasteful long to continue in a developed community.
We shall have as great a development in farming during the next twenty years as we have had in
manufacturing during the last twenty.
CHAPTER XV
WHY CHARITY?
Why should there by any necessity for almsgiving in a civilized community? It is not the charitable
mind to which I object. Heaven forbid that we should ever grow cold toward a fellow creature in need.
Human sympathy is too fine for the cool, calculating attitude to take its place. One can name very few
great advances that did not have human sympathy behind them. It is in order to help people that every
notable service is undertaken.
The trouble is that we have been using this great, fine motive force for ends too small. If human
sympathy prompts us to feed the hungry, why should it not give the larger desire—to make hunger in
our midst impossible? If we have sympathy enough for people to help them out of their troubles, surely
we ought to have sympathy enough to keep them out.
It is easy to give; it is harder to make giving unnecessary. To make the giving unnecessary we must
look beyond the individual to the cause of his misery—not hesitating, of course, to relieve him in the
meantime, but not stopping with mere temporary relief. The difficulty seems to be in getting to look
beyond to the causes. More people can be moved to help a poor family than can be moved to give their
minds toward the removal of poverty altogether.
I have no patience with professional charity, or with any sort of commercialized humanitarianism. The
moment human helpfulness is systematized, organized, commercialized, and professionalized, the
heart of it is extinguished, and it becomes a cold and clammy thing.
Real human helpfulness is never card-catalogued or advertised. There are more orphan children being
cared for in the private homes of people who love them than in the institutions. There are more old
people being sheltered by friends than you can find in the old people's homes. There is more aid by
loans from family to family than by the loan societies. That is, human society on a humane basis looks
out for itself. It is a grave question how far we ought to countenance the commercialization of the
natural instinct of charity.
Professional charity is not only cold but it hurts more than it helps. It degrades the recipients and drugs
their self-respect. Akin to it is sentimental idealism. The idea went abroad not so many years ago that
"service" was something that we should expect to have done for us. Untold numbers of people became
the recipients of well-meant "social service." Whole sections of our population were coddled into a
state of expectant, child-like helplessness. There grew up a regular profession of doing things for
people, which gave an outlet for a laudable desire for service, but which contributed nothing whatever
to the self-reliance of the people nor to the correction of the conditions out of which the supposed need
for such service grew.
Worse than this encouragement of childish wistfulness, instead of training for self-reliance and self-
sufficiency, was the creation of a feeling of resentment which nearly always overtakes the objects of
charity. People often complain of the "ingratitude" of those whom they help. Nothing is more natural.
In the first place, precious little of our so-called charity is ever real charity, offered out of a heart full
of interest and sympathy. In the second place, no person ever relishes being in a position where he is
forced to take favors.
Such "social work" creates a strained relation—the recipient of bounty feels that he has been belittled
in the taking, and it is a question whether the giver should not also feel that he has been belittled in the
giving. Charity never led to a settled state of affairs. The charitable system that does not aim to make
itself unnecessary is not performing service. It is simply making a job for itself and is an added item to
the record of non-production.
Charity becomes unnecessary as those who seem to be unable to earn livings are taken out of the non-
productive class and put into the productive. In a previous chapter I have set out how experiments in
our shops have demonstrated that in sufficiently subdivided industry there are places which can be
filled by the maimed, the halt, and the blind. Scientific industry need not be a monster devouring all
who come near it. When it is, then it is not fulfilling its place in life. In and out of industry there must
be jobs that take the full strength of a powerful man; there are other jobs, and plenty of them, that
require more skill than the artisans of the Middle Ages ever had. The minute subdivision of industry
permits a strong man or a skilled man always to use his strength or skill. In the old hand industry, a
skilled man spent a good part of his time at unskilled work. That was a waste. But since in those days
every task required both skilled and unskilled labour to be performed by the one man, there was little
room for either the man who was too stupid ever to be skilled or the man who did not have the
opportunity to learn a trade.
No mechanic working with only his hands can earn more than a bare sustenance. He cannot have a
surplus. It has been taken for granted that, coming into old age, a mechanic must be supported by his
children or, if he has no children, that he will be a public charge. All of that is quite unnecessary. The
subdivision of industry opens places that can be filled by practically any one. There are more places in
subdivision industry that can be filled by blind men than there are blind men. There are more places
that can be filled by cripples than there are cripples. And in each of these places the man who short-
sightedly might be considered as an object of charity can earn just as adequate a living as the keenest
and most able-bodied. It is waste to put an able-bodied man in a job that might be just as well cared for
by a cripple. It is a frightful waste to put the blind at weaving baskets. It is waste to have convicts
breaking stone or picking hemp or doing any sort of petty, useless task.
A well-conducted jail should not only be self-supporting, but a man in jail ought to be able to support
his family or, if he has no family, he should be able to accumulate a sum of money sufficient to put
him on his feet when he gets out of jail. I am not advocating convict labour or the farming out of men
practically as slaves. Such a plan is too detestable for words. We have greatly overdone the prison
business, anyway; we begin at the wrong end. But as long as we have prisons they can be fitted into
the general scheme of production so neatly that a prison may become a productive unit working for the
relief of the public and the benefit of the prisoners. I know that there are laws—foolish laws passed by
unthinking men—that restrict the industrial activities of prisons. Those laws were passed mostly at the
behest of what is called Labour. They are not for the benefit of the workingman. Increasing the charges
upon a community does not benefit any one in the community. If the idea of service be kept in mind,
then there is always in every community more work to do than there are men who can do it.
Industry organized for service removes the need for philanthropy. Philanthropy, no matter how noble
its motive, does not make for self-reliance. We must have self-reliance. A community is the better for
being discontented, for being dissatisfied with what it has. I do not mean the petty, daily, nagging,
gnawing sort of discontent, but a broad, courageous sort of discontent which believes that everything
which is done can and ought to be eventually done better. Industry organized for service—and the
workingman as well as the leader must serve—can pay wages sufficiently large to permit every family
to be both self-reliant and self-supporting. A philanthropy that spends its time and money in helping
the world to do more for itself is far better than the sort which merely gives and thus encourages
idleness. Philanthropy, like everything else, ought to be productive, and I believe that it can be. I have
personally been experimenting with a trade school and a hospital to discover if such institutions, which
are commonly regarded as benevolent, cannot be made to stand on their own feet. I have found that
they can be.
I am not in sympathy with the trade school as it is commonly organized—the boys get only a
smattering of knowledge and they do not learn how to use that knowledge. The trade school should not
be a cross between a technical college and a school; it should be a means of teaching boys to be
productive. If they are put at useless tasks—at making articles and then throwing them away—they
cannot have the interest or acquire the knowledge which is their right. And during the period of
schooling the boy is not productive; the schools—unless by charity—make no provision for the
support of the boy. Many boys need support; they must work at the first thing which comes to hand.
They have no chance to pick and choose.
When the boy thus enters life untrained, he but adds to the already great scarcity of competent labour.
Modern industry requires a degree of ability and skill which neither early quitting of school nor long
continuance at school provides. It is true that, in order to retain the interest of the boy and train him in
handicraft, manual training departments have been introduced in the more progressive school systems,
but even these are confessedly makeshifts because they only cater to, without satisfying, the normal
boy's creative instincts.
To meet this condition—to fulfill the boy's educational possibilities and at the same time begin his
industrial training along constructive lines—the Henry Ford Trade School was incorporated in 1916.
We do not use the word philanthropy in connection with this effort. It grew out of a desire to aid the
boy whose circumstances compelled him to leave school early. This desire to aid fitted in conveniently
with the necessity of providing trained tool-makers in the shops. From the beginning we have held to
three cardinal principles: first, that the boy was to be kept a boy and not changed into a premature
working-man; second, that the academic training was to go hand in hand with the industrial
instruction; third, that the boy was to be given a sense of pride and responsibility in his work by being
trained on articles which were to be used. He works on objects of recognized industrial worth. The
school is incorporated as a private school and is open to boys between the ages of twelve and eighteen.
It is organized on the basis of scholarships and each boy is awarded an annual cash scholarship of four
hundred dollars at his entrance. This is gradually increased to a maximum of six hundred dollars if his
record is satisfactory.
A record of the class and shop work is kept and also of the industry the boy displays in each. It is the
marks in industry which are used in making subsequent adjustments of his scholarship. In addition to
his scholarship each boy is given a small amount each month which must be deposited in his savings
account. This thrift fund must be left in the bank as long as the boy remains in the school unless he is
given permission by the authorities to use it for an emergency.
One by one the problems of managing the school are being solved and better ways of accomplishing
its objects are being discovered. At the beginning it was the custom to give the boy one third of the day
in class work and two thirds in shop work. This daily adjustment was found to be a hindrance to
progress, and now the boy takes his training in blocks of weeks—one week in the class and two weeks
in the shop. Classes are continuous, the various groups taking their weeks in turn.
The best instructors obtainable are on the staff, and the text-book is the Ford plant. It offers more
resources for practical education than most universities. The arithmetic lessons come in concrete shop
problems. No longer is the boy's mind tortured with the mysterious A who can row four miles while B
is rowing two. The actual processes and actual conditions are exhibited to him—he is taught to
observe. Cities are no longer black specks on maps and continents are not just pages of a book. The
shop shipments to Singapore, the shop receipts of material from Africa and South America are shown
to him, and the world becomes an inhabited planet instead of a coloured globe on the teacher's desk. In
physics and chemistry the industrial plant provides a laboratory in which theory becomes practice and
the lesson becomes actual experience. Suppose the action of a pump is being taught. The teacher
explains the parts and their functions, answers questions, and then they all troop away to the engine
rooms to see a great pump. The school has a regular factory workshop with the finest equipment. The
boys work up from one machine to the next. They work solely on parts or articles needed by the
company, but our needs are so vast that this list comprehends nearly everything. The inspected work is
purchased by the Ford Motor Company, and, of course, the work that does not pass inspection is a loss
to the school.
The boys who have progressed furthest do fine micrometer work, and they do every operation with a
clear understanding of the purposes and principles involved. They repair their own machines; they
learn how to take care of themselves around machinery; they study pattern-making and in clean, well-
lighted rooms with their instructors they lay the foundation for successful careers.
When they graduate, places are always open for them in the shops at good wages. The social and moral
well-being of the boys is given an unobtrusive care. The supervision is not of authority but of friendly
interest. The home conditions of every boy are pretty well known, and his tendencies are observed.
And no attempt is made to coddle him. No attempt is made to render him namby-pamby. One day
when two boys came to the point of a fight, they were not lectured on the wickedness of fighting. They
were counseled to make up their differences in a better way, but when, boy-like, they preferred the
more primitive mode of settlement, they were given gloves and made to fight it out in a corner of the
shop. The only prohibition laid upon them was that they were to finish it there, and not to be caught
fighting outside the shop. The result was a short encounter and—friendship.
They are handled as boys; their better boyish instincts are encouraged; and when one sees them in the
shops and classes one cannot easily miss the light of dawning mastery in their eyes. They have a sense
of "belonging." They feel they are doing something worth while. They learn readily and eagerly
because they are learning the things which every active boy wants to learn and about which he is
constantly asking questions that none of his home-folks can answer.
Beginning with six boys the school now has two hundred and is possessed of so practical a system that
it may expand to seven hundred. It began with a deficit, but as it is one of my basic ideas that anything
worth while in itself can be made self-sustaining, it has so developed its processes that it is now paying
its way.
We have been able to let the boy have his boyhood. These boys learn to be workmen but they do not
forget how to be boys. That is of the first importance. They earn from 19 to 35 cents an hour—which is
more than they could earn as boys in the sort of job open to a youngster. They can better help support
their families by staying in school than by going out to work. When they are through, they have a good
general education, the beginning of a technical education, and they are so skilled as workmen that they
can earn wages which will give them the liberty to continue their education if they like. If they do not
want more education, they have at least the skill to command high wages anywhere. They do not have
to go into our factories; most of them do because they do not know where better jobs are to be had—
we want all our jobs to be good for the men who take them. But there is no string tied to the boys.
They have earned their own way and are under obligations to no one. There is no charity. The place
pays for itself.
The Ford Hospital is being worked out on somewhat similar lines, but because of the interruption of
the war—when it was given to the Government and became General Hospital No. 36, housing some
fifteen hundred patients—the work has not yet advanced to the point of absolutely definite results. I
did not deliberately set out to build this hospital. It began in 1914 as the Detroit General Hospital and
was designed to be erected by popular subscription. With others, I made a subscription, and the
building began. Long before the first buildings were done, the funds became exhausted and I was
asked to make another subscription. I refused because I thought that the managers should have known
how much the building was going to cost before they started. And that sort of a beginning did not give
great confidence as to how the place would be managed after it was finished. However, I did offer to
take the whole hospital, paying back all the subscriptions that had been made. This was accomplished,
and we were going forward with the work when, on August 1, 1918, the whole institution was turned
over to the Government. It was returned to us in October, 1919, and on the tenth day of November of
the same year the first private patient was admitted.
The hospital is on West Grand Boulevard in Detroit and the plot embraces twenty acres, so that there
will be ample room for expansion. It is our thought to extend the facilities as they justify themselves.
The original design of the hospital has been quite abandoned and we have endeavoured to work out a
new kind of hospital, both in design and management. There are plenty of hospitals for the rich. There
are plenty of hospitals for the poor. There are no hospitals for those who can afford to pay only a
moderate amount and yet desire to pay without a feeling that they are recipients of charity. It has been
taken for granted that a hospital cannot both serve and be self-supporting—that it has to be either an
institution kept going by private contributions or pass into the class of private sanitariums managed for
profit. This hospital is designed to be self-supporting—to give a maximum of service at a minimum of
cost and without the slightest colouring of charity.
In the new buildings that we have erected there are no wards. All of the rooms are private and each one
is provided with a bath. The rooms—which are in groups of twenty-four—are all identical in size, in
fittings, and in furnishings. There is no choice of rooms. It is planned that there shall be no choice of
anything within the hospital. Every patient is on an equal footing with every other patient.
It is not at all certain whether hospitals as they are now managed exist for patients or for doctors. I am
not unmindful of the large amount of time which a capable physician or surgeon gives to charity, but
also I am not convinced that the fees of surgeons should be regulated according to the wealth of the
patient, and I am entirely convinced that what is known as "professional etiquette" is a curse to
mankind and to the development of medicine. Diagnosis is not very much developed. I should not care
to be among the proprietors of a hospital in which every step had not been taken to insure that the
patients were being treated for what actually was the matter with them, instead of for something that
one doctor had decided they had. Professional etiquette makes it very difficult for a wrong diagnosis to
be corrected. The consulting physician, unless he be a man of great tact, will not change a diagnosis or
a treatment unless the physician who has called him in is in thorough agreement, and then if a change
be made, it is usually without the knowledge of the patient. There seems to be a notion that a patient,
and especially when in a hospital, becomes the property of the doctor. A conscientious practitioner
does not exploit the patient. A less conscientious one does. Many physicians seem to regard the
sustaining of their own diagnoses as of as great moment as the recovery of the patient.
It has been an aim of our hospital to cut away from all of these practices and to put the interest of the
patient first. Therefore, it is what is known as a "closed" hospital. All of the physicians and all of the
nurses are employed by the year and they can have no practice outside of the hospital. Including the
interns, twenty-one physicians and surgeons are on the staff. These men have been selected with great
care and they are paid salaries that amount to at least as much as they would ordinarily earn in
successful private practice. They have, none of them, any financial interest whatsoever in any patient,
and a patient may not be treated by a doctor from the outside. We gladly acknowledge the place and
the use of the family physician. We do not seek to supplant him. We take the case where he leaves off,
and return the patient as quickly as possible. Our system makes it undesirable for us to keep patients
longer than necessary—we do not need that kind of business. And we will share with the family
physician our knowledge of the case, but while the patient is in the hospital we assume full
responsibility. It is "closed" to outside physicians' practice, though it is not closed to our cooperation
with any family physician who desires it.
The admission of a patient is interesting. The incoming patient is first examined by the senior
physician and then is routed for examination through three, four, or whatever number of doctors seems
necessary. This routing takes place regardless of what the patient came to the hospital for, because, as
we are gradually learning, it is the complete health rather than a single ailment which is important.
Each of the doctors makes a complete examination, and each sends in his written findings to the head
physician without any opportunity whatsoever to consult with any of the other examining physicians.
At least three, and sometimes six or seven, absolutely complete and absolutely independent diagnoses
are thus in the hands of the head of the hospital. They constitute a complete record of the case. These
precautions are taken in order to insure, within the limits of present-day knowledge, a correct
diagnosis.
At the present time, there are about six hundred beds available. Every patient pays according to a fixed
schedule that includes the hospital room, board, medical and surgical attendance, and nursing. There
are no extras. There are no private nurses. If a case requires more attention than the nurses assigned to
the wing can give, then another nurse is put on, but without any additional expense to the patient. This,
however, is rarely necessary because the patients are grouped according to the amount of nursing that
they will need. There may be one nurse for two patients, or one nurse for five patients, as the type of
cases may require. No one nurse ever has more than seven patients to care for, and because of the
arrangements it is easily possible for a nurse to care for seven patients who are not desperately ill. In
the ordinary hospital the nurses must make many useless steps. More of their time is spent in walking
than in caring for the patient. This hospital is designed to save steps. Each floor is complete in itself,
and just as in the factories we have tried to eliminate the necessity for waste motion, so have we also
tried to eliminate waste motion in the hospital. The charge to patients for a room, nursing, and medical
attendance is $4.50 a day. This will be lowered as the size of the hospital increases. The charge for a
major operation is $125. The charge for minor operations is according to a fixed scale. All of the
charges are tentative. The hospital has a cost system just like a factory. The charges will be regulated
to make ends just meet.
There seems to be no good reason why the experiment should not be successful. Its success is purely a
matter of management and mathematics. The same kind of management which permits a factory to
give the fullest service will permit a hospital to give the fullest service, and at a price so low as to be
within the reach of everyone. The only difference between hospital and factory accounting is that I do
not expect the hospital to return a profit; we do expect it to cover depreciation. The investment in this
hospital to date is about $9,000,000.
If we can get away from charity, the funds that now go into charitable enterprises can be turned to
furthering production—to making goods cheaply and in great plenty. And then we shall not only be
removing the burden of taxes from the community and freeing men but also we can be adding to the
general wealth. We leave for private interest too many things we ought to do for ourselves as a
collective interest. We need more constructive thinking in public service. We need a kind of "universal
training" in economic facts. The over-reaching ambitions of speculative capital, as well as the
unreasonable demands of irresponsible labour, are due to ignorance of the economic basis of life.
Nobody can get more out of life than life can produce—yet nearly everybody thinks he can.
Speculative capital wants more; labour wants more; the source of raw material wants more; and the
purchasing public wants more. A family knows that it cannot live beyond its income; even the children
know that. But the public never seems to learn that it cannot live beyond its income—have more than
it produces.
In clearing out the need for charity we must keep in mind not only the economic facts of existence, but
also that lack of knowledge of these facts encourages fear. Banish fear and we can have self-reliance.
Charity is not present where self-reliance dwells.
Fear is the offspring of a reliance placed on something outside—on a foreman's good-will, perhaps, on
a shop's prosperity, on a market's steadiness. That is just another way of saying that fear is the portion
of the man who acknowledges his career to be in the keeping of earthly circumstances. Fear is the
result of the body assuming ascendancy over the soul.
The habit of failure is purely mental and is the mother of fear. This habit gets itself fixed on men
because they lack vision. They start out to do something that reaches from A to Z. At A they fail, at B
they stumble, and at C they meet with what seems to be an insuperable difficulty. They then cry
"Beaten" and throw the whole task down. They have not even given themselves a chance really to fail;
they have not given their vision a chance to be proved or disproved. They have simply let themselves
be beaten by the natural difficulties that attend every kind of effort.
More men are beaten than fail. It is not wisdom they need or money, or brilliance, or "pull," but just
plain gristle and bone. This rude, simple, primitive power which we call "stick-to-it-iveness" is the
uncrowned king of the world of endeavour. People are utterly wrong in their slant upon things. They
see the successes that men have made and somehow they appear to be easy. But that is a world away
from the facts. It is failure that is easy. Success is always hard. A man can fail in ease; he can succeed
only by paying out all that he has and is. It is this which makes success so pitiable a thing if it be in
lines that are not useful and uplifting.
If a man is in constant fear of the industrial situation he ought to change his life so as not to be
dependent upon it. There is always the land, and fewer people are on the land now than ever before. If
a man lives in fear of an employer's favor changing toward him, he ought to extricate himself from
dependence on any employer. He can become his own boss. It may be that he will be a poorer boss
than the one he leaves, and that his returns will be much less, but at least he will have rid himself of the
shadow of his pet fear, and that is worth a great deal in money and position. Better still is for the man
to come through himself and exceed himself by getting rid of his fears in the midst of the
circumstances where his daily lot is cast. Become a freeman in the place where you first surrendered
your freedom. Win your battle where you lost it. And you will come to see that, although there was
much outside of you that was not right, there was more inside of you that was not right. Thus you will
learn that the wrong inside of you spoils even the right that is outside of you.
A man is still the superior being of the earth. Whatever happens, he is still a man. Business may
slacken tomorrow—he is still a man. He goes through the changes of circumstances, as he goes
through the variations of temperature—still a man. If he can only get this thought reborn in him, it
opens new wells and mines in his own being. There is no security outside of himself. There is no
wealth outside of himself. The elimination of fear is the bringing in of security and supply.
Let every American become steeled against coddling. Americans ought to resent coddling. It is a drug.
Stand up and stand out; let weaklings take charity.
CHAPTER XVI
THE RAILROADS
Nothing in this country furnishes a better example of how a business may be turned from its function
of service than do the railroads. We have a railroad problem, and much learned thought and discussion
have been devoted to the solution of that problem. Everyone is dissatisfied with the railways. The
public is dissatisfied because both the passenger and freight rates are too high. The railroad employees
are dissatisfied because they say their wages are too low and their hours too long. The owners of the
railways are dissatisfied because it is claimed that no adequate return is realized upon the money
invested. All of the contacts of a properly managed undertaking ought to be satisfactory. If the public,
the employees, and the owners do not find themselves better off because of the undertaking, then there
must be something very wrong indeed with the manner in which the undertaking is carried through.
I am entirely without any disposition to pose as a railroad authority. There may be railroad authorities,
but if the service as rendered by the American railroad to-day is the result of accumulated railway
knowledge, then I cannot say that my respect for the usefulness of that knowledge is at all profound. I
have not the slightest doubt in the world that the active managers of the railways, the men who really
do the work, are entirely capable of conducting the railways of the country to the satisfaction of every
one, and I have equally no doubt that these active managers have, by force of a chain of circumstances,
all but ceased to manage. And right there is the source of most of the trouble. The men who know
railroading have not been allowed to manage railroads.
In a previous chapter on finance were set forth the dangers attendant upon the indiscriminate
borrowing of money. It is inevitable that any one who can borrow freely to cover errors of
management will borrow rather than correct the errors. Our railway managers have been practically
forced to borrow, for since the very inception of the railways they have not been free agents. The
guiding hand of the railway has been, not the railroad man, but the banker. When railroad credit was
high, more money was to be made out of floating bond issues and speculating in the securities than out
of service to the public. A very small fraction of the money earned by the railways has gone back into
the rehabilitation of the properties. When by skilled management the net revenue became large enough
to pay a considerable dividend upon the stock, then that dividend was used first by the speculators on
the inside and controlling the railroad fiscal policy to boom the stock and unload their holdings, and
then to float a bond issue on the strength of the credit gained through the earnings. When the earnings
dropped or were artificially depressed, then the speculators bought back the stock and in the course of
time staged another advance and unloading. There is scarcely a railroad in the United States that has
not been through one or more receiverships, due to the fact that the financial interests piled on load
after load of securities until the structures grew topheavy and fell over. Then they got in on the
receiverships, made money at the expense of gullible security holders, and started the same old
pyramiding game all over again.
The natural ally of the banker is the lawyer. Such games as have been played on the railroads have
needed expert legal advice. Lawyers, like bankers, know absolutely nothing about business. They
imagine that a business is properly conducted if it keeps within the law or if the law can be altered or
interpreted to suit the purpose in hand. They live on rules. The bankers took finance out of the hands of
the managers. They put in lawyers to see that the railroads violated the law only in legal fashion, and
thus grew up immense legal departments. Instead of operating under the rules of common sense and
according to circumstances, every railroad had to operate on the advice of counsel. Rules spread
through every part of the organization. Then came the avalanche of state and federal regulations, until
to-day we find the railways hog-tied in a mass of rules and regulations. With the lawyers and the
financiers on the inside and various state commissions on the outside, the railway manager has little
chance. That is the trouble with the railways. Business cannot be conducted by law.
We have had the opportunity of demonstrating to ourselves what a freedom from the banker-legal
mortmain means, in our experience with the Detroit, Toledo & Ironton Railway. We bought the
railway because its right of way interfered with some of our improvements on the River Rouge. We
did not buy it as an investment, or as an adjunct to our industries, or because of its strategic position.
The extraordinarily good situation of the railway seems to have become universally apparent only
since we bought it. That, however, is beside the point. We bought the railway because it interfered
with our plans. Then we had to do something with it. The only thing to do was to run it as a productive
enterprise, applying to it exactly the same principles as are applied in every department of our
industries. We have as yet made no special efforts of any kind and the railway has not been set up as a
demonstration of how every railway should be run. It is true that applying the rule of maximum service
at minimum cost has caused the income of the road to exceed the outgo—which, for that road,
represents a most unusual condition. It has been represented that the changes we have made—and
remember they have been made simply as part of the day's work—are peculiarly revolutionary and
quite without application to railway management in general. Personally, it would seem to me that our
little line does not differ much from the big lines. In our own work we have always found that, if our
principles were right, the area over which they were applied did not matter. The principles that we use
in the big Highland Park plant seem to work equally well in every plant that we establish. It has never
made any difference with us whether we multiplied what we were doing by five or five hundred. Size
is only a matter of the multiplication table, anyway.
The Detroit, Toledo & Ironton Railway was organized some twenty-odd years ago and has been
reorganized every few years since then. The last reorganization was in 1914. The war and the federal
control of the railways interrupted the cycle of reorganization. The road owns 343 miles of track, has
52 miles of branches, and 45 miles of trackage rights over other roads. It goes from Detroit almost due
south to Ironton on the Ohio River, thus tapping the West Virginia coal deposits. It crosses most of the
large trunk lines and it is a road which, from a general business standpoint, ought to pay. It has paid. It
seems to have paid the bankers. In 1913 the net capitalization per mile of road was $105,000. In the
next receivership this was cut down to $47,000 per mile. I do not know how much money in all has
been raised on the strength of the road. I do know that in the reorganization of 1914 the bondholders
were assessed and forced to turn into the treasury nearly five million dollars—which is the amount that
we paid for the entire road. We paid sixty cents on the dollar for the outstanding mortgage bonds,
although the ruling price just before the time of purchase was between thirty and forty cents on the
dollar. We paid a dollar a share for the common stock and five dollars a share for the preferred stock—
which seemed to be a fair price considering that no interest had ever been paid upon the bonds and a
dividend on the stock was a most remote possibility. The rolling stock of the road consisted of about
seventy locomotives, twenty-seven passenger cars, and around twenty-eight hundred freight cars. All
of the rolling stock was in extremely bad condition and a good part of it would not run at all. All of the
buildings were dirty, unpainted, and generally run down. The roadbed was something more than a
streak of rust and something less than a railway. The repair shops were over-manned and under-
machined. Practically everything connected with operation was conducted with a maximum of waste.
There was, however, an exceedingly ample executive and administration department, and of course a
legal department. The legal department alone cost in one month nearly $18,000.
We took over the road in March, 1921. We began to apply industrial principles. There had been an
executive office in Detroit. We closed that up and put the administration into the charge of one man
and gave him half of the flat-topped desk out in the freight office. The legal department went with the
executive offices. There is no reason for so much litigation in connection with railroading. Our people
quickly settled all the mass of outstanding claims, some of which had been hanging on for years. As
new claims arise, they are settled at once and on the facts, so that the legal expense seldom exceeds
$200 a month. All of the unnecessary accounting and red tape were thrown out and the payroll of the
road was reduced from 2,700 to 1,650 men. Following our general policy, all titles and offices other
than those required by law were abolished. The ordinary railway organization is rigid; a message has
to go up through a certain line of authority and no man is expected to do anything without explicit
orders from his superior. One morning I went out to the road very early and found a wrecking train
with steam up, a crew aboard and all ready to start. It had been "awaiting orders" for half an hour. We
went down and cleared the wreck before the orders came through; that was before the idea of personal
responsibility had soaked in. It was a little hard to break the "orders" habit; the men at first were afraid
to take responsibility. But as we went on, they seemed to like the plan more and more and now no man
limits his duties. A man is paid for a day's work of eight hours and he is expected to work during those
eight hours. If he is an engineer and finishes a run in four hours then he works at whatever else may be
in demand for the next four hours. If a man works more than eight hours he is not paid for overtime—
he deducts his overtime from the next working day or saves it up and gets a whole day off with pay.
Our eight-hour day is a day of eight hours and not a basis for computing pay.
The minimum wage is six dollars a day. There are no extra men. We have cut down in the offices, in
the shops, and on the roads. In one shop 20 men are now doing more work than 59 did before. Not
long ago one of our track gangs, consisting of a foreman and 15 men, was working beside a parallel
road on which was a gang of 40 men doing exactly the same sort of track repairing and ballasting. In
five days our gang did two telegraph poles more than the competing gang!
The road is being rehabilitated; nearly the whole track has been reballasted and many miles of new
rails have been laid. The locomotives and rolling stock are being overhauled in our own shops and at a
very slight expense. We found that the supplies bought previously were of poor quality or unfitted for
the use; we are saving money on supplies by buying better qualities and seeing that nothing is wasted.
The men seem entirely willing to cooperate in saving. They do not discard that which might be used.
We ask a man, "What can you get out of an engine?" and he answers with an economy record. And we
are not pouring in great amounts of money. Everything is being done out of earnings. That is our
policy. The trains must go through and on time. The time of freight movements has been cut down
about two thirds. A car on a siding is not just a car on a siding. It is a great big question mark.
Someone has to know why it is there. It used to take 8 or 9 days to get freight through to Philadelphia
or New York; now it takes three and a half days. The organization is serving.
All sorts of explanations are put forward, of why a deficit was turned into a surplus. I am told that it is
all due to diverting the freight of the Ford industries. If we had diverted all of our business to this road,
that would not explain why we manage at so much lower an operating cost than before. We are routing
as much as we can of our own business over the road, but only because we there get the best service.
For years past we had been trying to send freight over this road because it was conveniently located,
but we had never been able to use it to any extent because of the delayed deliveries. We could not
count on a shipment to within five or six weeks; that tied up too much money and also broke into our
production schedule. There was no reason why the road should not have had a schedule; but it did not.
The delays became legal matters to be taken up in due legal course; that is not the way of business. We
think that a delay is a criticism of our work and is something at once to be investigated. That is
business.
The railroads in general have broken down, and if the former conduct of the Detroit, Toledo & Ironton
is any criterion of management in general there is no reason in the world why they should not have
broken down. Too many railroads are run, not from the offices of practical men, but from banking
offices, and the principles of procedure, the whole outlook, are financial—not transportational, but
financial. There has been a breakdown simply because more attention has been paid to railroads as
factors in the stock market than as servants of the people. Outworn ideas have been retained,
development has been practically stopped, and railroad men with vision have not been set free to grow.
Will a billion dollars solve that sort of trouble? No, a billion dollars will only make the difficulty one
billion dollars worse. The purpose of the billion is simply to continue the present methods of railroad
management, and it is because of the present methods that we have any railroad difficulties at all.
The mistaken and foolish things we did years ago are just overtaking us. At the beginning of railway
transportation in the United States, the people had to be taught its use, just as they had to be taught the
use of the telephone. Also, the new railroads had to make business in order to keep themselves solvent.
And because railway financing began in one of the rottenest periods of our business history, a number
of practices were established as precedents which have influenced railway work ever since. One of the
first things the railways did was to throttle all other methods of transportation. There was the
beginning of a splendid canal system in this country and a great movement for canalization was at its
height. The railroad companies bought out the canal companies and let the canals fill up and choke
with weeds and refuse. All over the Eastern and in parts of the Middle Western states are the remains
of this network of internal waterways. They are being restored now as rapidly as possible; they are
being linked together; various commissions, public and private, have seen the vision of a complete
system of waterways serving all parts of the country, and thanks to their efforts, persistence, and faith,
progress is being made.
But there was another. This was the system of making the haul as long as possible. Any one who is
familiar with the exposures which resulted in the formation of the Interstate Commerce Commission
knows what is meant by this. There was a period when rail transport was not regarded as the servant of
the traveling, manufacturing, and commercial publics. Business was treated as if it existed for the
benefit of the railways. During this period of folly, it was not good railroading to get goods from their
shipping point to their destination by the most direct line possible, but to keep them on the road as long
as possible, send them around the longest way, give as many connecting lines as possible a piece of the
profit, and let the public stand the resulting loss of time and money. That was once counted good
railroading. It has not entirely passed out of practice to-day.
One of the great changes in our economic life to which this railroad policy contributed was the
centralization of certain activities, not because centralization was necessary, nor because it contributed
to the well-being of the people, but because, among other things, it made double business for the
railroads. Take two staples—meat and grain. If you look at the maps which the packing houses put out,
and see where the cattle are drawn from; and then if you consider that the cattle, when converted into
food, are hauled again by the same railways right back to the place where they came from, you will get
some sidelight on the transportation problem and the price of meat. Take also grain. Every reader of
advertisements knows where the great flour mills of the country are located. And they probably know
also that these great mills are not located in the sections where the grain of the United States is raised.
There are staggering quantities of grain, thousands of trainloads, hauled uselessly long distances, and
then in the form of flour hauled back again long distances to the states and sections where the grain
was raised—a burdening of the railroads which is of no benefit to the communities where the grain
originated, nor to any one else except the monopolistic mills and the railroads. The railroads can
always do a big business without helping the business of the country at all; they can always be engaged
in just such useless hauling. On meat and grain and perhaps on cotton, too, the transportation burden
could be reduced by more than half, by the preparation of the product for use before it is shipped. If a
coal community mined coal in Pennsylvania, and then sent it by railway to Michigan or Wisconsin to
be screened, and then hauled it back again to Pennsylvania for use, it would not be much sillier than
the hauling of Texas beef alive to Chicago, there to be killed, and then shipped back dead to Texas; or
the hauling of Kansas grain to Minnesota, there to be ground in the mills and hauled back again as
flour. It is good business for the railroads, but it is bad business for business. One angle of the
transportation problem to which too few men are paying attention is this useless hauling of material. If
the problem were tackled from the point of ridding the railroads of their useless hauls, we might
discover that we are in better shape than we think to take care of the legitimate transportation business
of the country. In commodities like coal it is necessary that they be hauled from where they are to
where they are needed. The same is true of the raw materials of industry—they must be hauled from
the place where nature has stored them to the place where there are people ready to work them. And as
these raw materials are not often found assembled in one section, a considerable amount of
transportation to a central assembling place is necessary. The coal comes from one section, the copper
from another, the iron from another, the wood from another—they must all be brought together.
But wherever it is possible a policy of decentralization ought to be adopted. We need, instead of

mammoth flour mills, a multitude of smaller mills distributed through all the sections where grain is
grown. Wherever it is possible, the section that produces the raw material ought to produce also the
finished product. Grain should be ground to flour where it is grown. A hog-growing country should not
export hogs, but pork, hams, and bacon. The cotton mills ought to be near the cotton fields. This is not
a revolutionary idea. In a sense it is a reactionary one. It does not suggest anything new; it suggests
something that is very old. This is the way the country did things before we fell into the habit of
carting everything around a few thousand miles and adding the cartage to the consumer's bill. Our
communities ought to be more complete in themselves. They ought not to be unnecessarily dependent
on railway transportation. Out of what they produce they should supply their own needs and ship the
surplus. And how can they do this unless they have the means of taking their raw materials, like grain
and cattle, and changing them into finished products? If private enterprise does not yield these means,
the cooperation of farmers can. The chief injustice sustained by the farmer to-day is that, being the
greatest producer, he is prevented from being also the greatest merchandiser, because he is compelled
to sell to those who put his products into merchantable form. If he could change his grain into flour,
his cattle into beef, and his hogs into hams and bacon, not only would he receive the fuller profit of his
product, but he would render his near-by communities more independent of railway exigencies, and
thereby improve the transportation system by relieving it of the burden of his unfinished product. The
thing is not only reasonable and practicable, but it is becoming absolutely necessary. More than that, it
is being done in many places. But it will not register its full effect on the transportation situation and
upon the cost of living until it is done more widely and in more kinds of materials.
It is one of nature's compensations to withdraw prosperity from the business which does not serve.
We have found that on the Detroit, Toledo & Ironton we could, following our universal policy, reduce
our rates and get more business. We made some cuts, but the Interstate Commerce Commission
refused to allow them! Under such conditions why discuss the railroads as a business? Or as a service?
CHAPTER XVII
THINGS IN GENERAL
No man exceeds Thomas A. Edison in broad vision and understanding. I met him first many years ago
when I was with the Detroit Edison Company—probably about 1887 or thereabouts. The electrical
men held a convention at Atlantic City, and Edison, as the leader in electrical science, made an
address. I was then working on my gasoline engine, and most people, including all of my associates in
the electrical company, had taken pains to tell me that time spent on a gasoline engine was time wasted
—that the power of the future was to be electricity. These criticisms had not made any impression on
me. I was working ahead with all my might. But being in the same room with Edison suggested to me
that it would be a good idea to find out if the master of electricity thought it was going to be the only
power in the future. So, after Mr. Edison had finished his address, I managed to catch him alone for a
moment. I told him what I was working on.
At once he was interested. He is interested in every search for new knowledge. And then I asked him if
he thought that there was a future for the internal combustion engine. He answered something in this
fashion:
Yes, there is a big future for any light-weight engine that can develop a high horsepower and be self-
contained. No one kind of motive power is ever going to do all the work of the country. We do not
know what electricity can do, but I take for granted that it cannot do everything.
Keep on with your engine. If you can get what you are after, I can see a great future.
That is characteristic of Edison. He was the central figure in the electrical industry, which was then
young and enthusiastic. The rank and file of the electrical men could see nothing ahead but electricity,
but their leader could see with crystal clearness that no one power could do all the work of the country.
I suppose that is why he was the leader.
Such was my first meeting with Edison. I did not see him again until many years after—until our
motor had been developed and was in production. He remembered perfectly our first meeting. Since
then we have seen each other often. He is one of my closest friends, and we together have swapped
many an idea.
His knowledge is almost universal. He is interested in every conceivable subject and he recognizes no
limitations. He believes that all things are possible. At the same time he keeps his feet on the ground.
He goes forward step by step. He regards "impossible" as a description for that which we have not at
the moment the knowledge to achieve. He knows that as we amass knowledge we build the power to
overcome the impossible. That is the rational way of doing the "impossible." The irrational way is to
make the attempt without the toil of accumulating knowledge. Mr. Edison is only approaching the
height of his power. He is the man who is going to show us what chemistry really can do. For he is a
real scientist who regards the knowledge for which he is always searching as a tool to shape the
progress of the world. He is not the type of scientist who merely stores up knowledge and turns his
head into a museum. Edison is easily the world's greatest scientist. I am not sure that he is not also the
world's worst business man. He knows almost nothing of business.
John Burroughs was another of those who honoured me with their friendship. I, too, like birds. I like
the outdoors. I like to walk across country and jump fences. We have five hundred bird houses on the
farm. We call them our bird hotels, and one of them, the Hotel Pontchartrain—a martin house—has
seventy-six apartments. All winter long we have wire baskets of food hanging about on the trees and
then there is a big basin in which the water is kept from freezing by an electric heater. Summer and
winter, food, drink, and shelter are on hand for the birds. We have hatched pheasants and quail in
incubators and then turned them over to electric brooders. We have all kinds of bird houses and nests.
The sparrows, who are great abusers of hospitality, insist that their nests be immovable—that they do
not sway in the wind; the wrens like swaying nests. So we mounted a number of wren boxes on strips
of spring steel so that they would sway in the wind. The wrens liked the idea and the sparrows did not,
so we have been able to have the wrens nest in peace. In summer we leave cherries on the trees and
strawberries open in the beds, and I think that we have not only more but also more different kinds of
bird callers than anywhere else in the northern states. John Burroughs said he thought we had, and one
day when he was staying at our place he came across a bird that he had never seen before.
About ten years ago we imported a great number of birds from abroad—yellow-hammers, chaffinches,
green finches, red pales, twites, bullfinches, jays, linnets, larks—some five hundred of them. They
stayed around a while, but where they are now I do not know. I shall not import any more. Birds are
entitled to live where they want to live.
Birds are the best of companions. We need them for their beauty and their companionship, and also we
need them for the strictly economic reason that they destroy harmful insects. The only time I ever used
the Ford organization to influence legislation was on behalf of the birds, and I think the end justified
the means. The Weeks-McLean Bird Bill, providing for bird sanctuaries for our migratory birds, had
been hanging in Congress with every likelihood of dying a natural death. Its immediate sponsors could
not arouse much interest among the Congressmen. Birds do not vote. We got behind that bill and we
asked each of our six thousand dealers to wire to his representative in Congress. It began to become
apparent that birds might have votes; the bill went through. Our organization has never been used for
any political purpose and never will be. We assume that our people have a right to their own
preferences.
To get back to John Burroughs. Of course I knew who he was and I had read nearly everything he had
written, but I had never thought of meeting him until some years ago when he developed a grudge
against modern progress. He detested money and especially he detested the power which money gives
to vulgar people to despoil the lovely countryside. He grew to dislike the industry out of which money
is made. He disliked the noise of factories and railways. He criticized industrial progress, and he
declared that the automobile was going to kill the appreciation of nature. I fundamentally disagreed
with him. I thought that his emotions had taken him on the wrong tack and so I sent him an automobile
with the request that he try it out and discover for himself whether it would not help him to know
nature better. That automobile—and it took him some time to learn how to manage it himself—
completely changed his point of view. He found that it helped him to see more, and from the time of
getting it, he made nearly all of his bird-hunting expeditions behind the steering wheel. He learned that
instead of having to confine himself to a few miles around Slabsides, the whole countryside was open
to him.
Out of that automobile grew our friendship, and it was a fine one. No man could help being the better
for knowing John Burroughs. He was not a professional naturalist, nor did he make sentiment do for
hard research. It is easy to grow sentimental out of doors; it is hard to pursue the truth about a bird as
one would pursue a mechanical principle. But John Burroughs did that, and as a result the observations
he set down were very largely accurate. He was impatient with men who were not accurate in their
observations of natural life. John Burroughs first loved nature for its own sake; it was not merely his
stock of material as a professional writer. He loved it before he wrote about it.
Late in life he turned philosopher. His philosophy was not so much a philosophy of nature as it was a
natural philosophy—the long, serene thoughts of a man who had lived in the tranquil spirit of the trees.
He was not pagan; he was not pantheist; but he did not much divide between nature and human nature,
nor between human nature and divine. John Burroughs lived a wholesome life. He was fortunate to
have as his home the farm on which he was born. Through long years his surroundings were those
which made for quietness of mind. He loved the woods and he made dusty-minded city people love
them, too—he helped them see what he saw. He did not make much beyond a living. He could have
done so, perhaps, but that was not his aim. Like another American naturalist, his occupation could
have been described as inspector of birds' nests and hillside paths. Of course, that does not pay in
dollars and cents.
When he had passed the three score and ten he changed his views on industry. Perhaps I had
something to do with that. He came to see that the whole world could not live by hunting birds' nests.
At one time in his life, he had a grudge against all modern progress, especially where it was associated
with the burning of coal and the noise of traffic. Perhaps that was as near to literary affectation as he
ever came. Wordsworth disliked railways too, and Thoreau said that he could see more of the country
by walking. Perhaps it was influences such as these which bent John Burroughs for a time against
industrial progress. But only for a time. He came to see that it was fortunate for him that others' tastes
ran in other channels, just as it was fortunate for the world that his taste ran in its own channel. There
has been no observable development in the method of making birds' nests since the beginning of
recorded observation, but that was hardly a reason why human beings should not prefer modern
sanitary homes to cave dwellings. This was a part of John Burroughs's sanity—he was not afraid to
change his views. He was a lover of Nature, not her dupe. In the course of time he came to value and
approve modern devices, and though this by itself is an interesting fact, it is not so interesting as the
fact that he made this change after he was seventy years old. John Burroughs was never too old to
change. He kept growing to the last. The man who is too set to change is dead already. The funeral is a
mere detail.
If he talked more of one person than another, it was Emerson. Not only did he know Emerson by heart
as an author, but he knew him by heart as a spirit. He taught me to know Emerson. He had so saturated
himself with Emerson that at one time he thought as he did and even fell into his mode of expression.
But afterward he found his own way—which for him was better.
There was no sadness in John Burroughs's death. When the grain lies brown and ripe under the harvest
sun, and the harvesters are busy binding it into sheaves, there is no sadness for the grain. It has ripened
and has fulfilled its term, and so had John Burroughs. With him it was full ripeness and harvest, not
decay. He worked almost to the end. His plans ran beyond the end. They buried him amid the scenes
he loved, and it was his eighty-fourth birthday. Those scenes will be preserved as he loved them.
John Burroughs, Edison, and I with Harvey S. Firestone made several vagabond trips together. We
went in motor caravans and slept under canvas. Once we gypsied through the Adirondacks and again
through the Alleghenies, heading southward. The trips were good fun—except that they began to
attract too much attention.
*****
To-day I am more opposed to war than ever I was, and I think the people of the world know—even if
the politicians do not—that war never settles anything. It was war that made the orderly and profitable
processes of the world what they are to-day—a loose, disjointed mass. Of course, some men get rich
out of war; others get poor. But the men who get rich are not those who fought or who really helped
behind the lines. No patriot makes money out of war. No man with true patriotism could make money
out of war—out of the sacrifice of other men's lives. Until the soldier makes money by fighting, until
mothers make money by giving their sons to death—not until then should any citizen make money out
of providing his country with the means to preserve its life.
If wars are to continue, it will be harder and harder for the upright business man to regard war as a
legitimate means of high and speedy profits. War fortunes are losing caste every day. Even greed will
some day hesitate before the overwhelming unpopularity and opposition which will meet the war
profiteer. Business should be on the side of peace, because peace is business's best asset.
And, by the way, was inventive genius ever so sterile as it was during the war?
An impartial investigation of the last war, of what preceded it and what has come out of it, would show
beyond a doubt that there is in the world a group of men with vast powers of control, that prefers to
remain unknown, that does not seek office or any of the tokens of power, that belongs to no nation
whatever but is international—a force that uses every government, every widespread business
organization, every agency of publicity, every resource of national psychology, to throw the world into
a panic for the sake of getting still more power over the world. An old gambling trick used to be for the
gambler to cry "Police!" when a lot of money was on the table, and, in the panic that followed, to seize
the money and run off with it. There is a power within the world which cries "War!" and in the
confusion of the nations, the unrestrained sacrifice which people make for safety and peace runs off
with the spoils of the panic.
The point to keep in mind is that, though we won the military contest, the world has not yet quite
succeeded in winning a complete victory over the promoters of war. We ought not to forget that wars
are a purely manufactured evil and are made according to a definite technique. A campaign for war is
made upon as definite lines as a campaign for any other purpose. First, the people are worked upon. By
clever tales the people's suspicions are aroused toward the nation against whom war is desired. Make
the nation suspicious; make the other nation suspicious. All you need for this is a few agents with
some cleverness and no conscience and a press whose interest is locked up with the interests that will
be benefited by war. Then the "overt act" will soon appear. It is no trick at all to get an "overt act" once
you work the hatred of two nations up to the proper pitch.
There were men in every country who were glad to see the World War begin and sorry to see it stop.
Hundreds of American fortunes date from the Civil War; thousands of new fortunes date from the
World War. Nobody can deny that war is a profitable business for those who like that kind of money.
War is an orgy of money, just as it is an orgy of blood.
And we should not so easily be led into war if we considered what it is that makes a nation really great.
It is not the amount of trade that makes a nation great. The creation of private fortunes, like the
creation of an autocracy, does not make any country great. Nor does the mere change of an agricultural
population into a factory population. A country becomes great when, by the wise development of its
resources and the skill of its people, property is widely and fairly distributed.
Foreign trade is full of delusions. We ought to wish for every nation as large a degree of self-support
as possible. Instead of wishing to keep them dependent on us for what we manufacture, we should
wish them to learn to manufacture themselves and build up a solidly founded civilization. When every
nation learns to produce the things which it can produce, we shall be able to get down to a basis of
serving each other along those special lines in which there can be no competition. The North
Temperate Zone will never be able to compete with the tropics in the special products of the tropics.
Our country will never be a competitor with the Orient in the production of tea, nor with the South in
the production of rubber.
A large proportion of our foreign trade is based on the backwardness of our foreign customers.
Selfishness is a motive that would preserve that backwardness. Humanity is a motive that would help
the backward nations to a self-supporting basis. Take Mexico, for example. We have heard a great deal
about the "development" of Mexico. Exploitation is the word that ought instead to be used. When its
rich natural resources are exploited for the increase of the private fortunes of foreign capitalists, that is
not development, it is ravishment. You can never develop Mexico until you develop the Mexican. And
yet how much of the "development" of Mexico by foreign exploiters ever took account of the
development of its people? The Mexican peon has been regarded as mere fuel for the foreign money-
makers. Foreign trade has been his degradation.
Short-sighted people are afraid of such counsel. They say: "What would become of our foreign trade?"
When the natives of Africa begin raising their own cotton and the natives of Russia begin making their
own farming implements and the natives of China begin supplying their own wants, it will make a
difference, to be sure, but does any thoughtful man imagine that the world can long continue on the
present basis of a few nations supplying the needs of the world? We must think in terms of what the
world will be when civilization becomes general, when all the peoples have learned to help
themselves.
When a country goes mad about foreign trade it usually depends on other countries for its raw
material, turns its population into factory fodder, creates a private rich class, and lets its own
immediate interest lie neglected. Here in the United States we have enough work to do developing our
own country to relieve us of the necessity of looking for foreign trade for a long time. We have
agriculture enough to feed us while we are doing it, and money enough to carry the job through. Is
there anything more stupid than the United States standing idle because Japan or France or any other
country has not sent us an order when there is a hundred-year job awaiting us in developing our own
country?
Commerce began in service. Men carried off their surplus to people who had none. The country that
raised corn carried it to the country that could raise no corn. The lumber country brought wood to the
treeless plain. The vine country brought fruit to cold northern climes. The pasture country brought
meat to the grassless region. It was all service. When all the peoples of the world become developed in
the art of self-support, commerce will get back to that basis. Business will once more become service.
There will be no competition, because the basis of competition will have vanished. The varied peoples
will develop skills which will be in the nature of monopolies and not competitive. From the beginning,
the races have exhibited distinct strains of genius: this one for government; another for colonization;
another for the sea; another for art and music; another for agriculture; another for business, and so on.
Lincoln said that this nation could not survive half-slave and half-free. The human race cannot forever
exist half-exploiter and half-exploited. Until we become buyers and sellers alike, producers and
consumers alike, keeping the balance not for profit but for service, we are going to have topsy-turvy
conditions.
France has something to give the world of which no competition can cheat her. So has Italy. So has
Russia. So have the countries of South America. So has Japan. So has Britain. So has the United
States. The sooner we get back to a basis of natural specialties and drop this free-for-all system of
grab, the sooner we shall be sure of international self-respect—and international peace. Trying to take
the trade of the world can promote war. It cannot promote prosperity. Some day even the international
bankers will learn this.
I have never been able to discover any honourable reasons for the beginning of the World War. It
seems to have grown out of a very complicated situation created largely by those who thought they
could profit by war. I believed, on the information that was given to me in 1916, that some of the
nations were anxious for peace and would welcome a demonstration for peace. It was in the hope that
this was true that I financed the expedition to Stockholm in what has since been called the "Peace
Ship." I do not regret the attempt. The mere fact that it failed is not, to me, conclusive proof that it was
not worth trying. We learn more from our failures than from our successes. What I learned on that trip
was worth the time and the money expended. I do not now know whether the information as conveyed
to me was true or false. I do not care. But I think everyone will agree that if it had been possible to end
the war in 1916 the world would be better off than it is to-day.
For the victors wasted themselves in winning, and the vanquished in resisting. Nobody got an
advantage, honourable or dishonourable, out of that war. I had hoped, finally, when the United States
entered the war, that it might be a war to end wars, but now I know that wars do not end wars any
more than an extraordinarily large conflagration does away with the fire hazard. When our country
entered the war, it became the duty of every citizen to do his utmost toward seeing through to the end
that which we had undertaken. I believe that it is the duty of the man who opposes war to oppose going
to war up until the time of its actual declaration. My opposition to war is not based upon pacifist or
non-resistant principles. It may be that the present state of civilization is such that certain international
questions cannot be discussed; it may be that they have to be fought out. But the fighting never settles
the question. It only gets the participants around to a frame of mind where they will agree to discuss
what they were fighting about.
Once we were in the war, every facility of the Ford industries was put at the disposal of the
Government. We had, up to the time of the declaration of war, absolutely refused to take war orders
from the foreign belligerents. It is entirely out of keeping with the principles of our business to disturb
the routine of our production unless in an emergency. It is at variance with our human principles to aid
either side in a war in which our country was not involved. These principles had no application, once
the United States entered the war. From April, 1917, until November, 1918, our factory worked
practically exclusively for the Government. Of course we made cars and parts and special delivery
trucks and ambulances as a part of our general production, but we also made many other articles that
were more or less new to us. We made 2 1/2-ton and 6-ton trucks. We made Liberty motors in great
quantities, aero cylinders, 1.55 Mm. and 4.7 Mm. caissons. We made listening devices, steel helmets
(both at Highland Park and Philadelphia), and Eagle Boats, and we did a large amount of experimental
work on armour plate, compensators, and body armour. For the Eagle Boats we put up a special plant
on the River Rouge site. These boats were designed to combat the submarines. They were 204 feet
long, made of steel, and one of the conditions precedent to their building was that their construction
should not interfere with any other line of war production and also that they be delivered quickly. The
design was worked out by the Navy Department. On December 22, 1917, I offered to build the boats
for the Navy. The discussion terminated on January 15, 1918, when the Navy Department awarded the
contract to the Ford Company. On July 11th, the first completed boat was launched. We made both the
hulls and the engines, and not a forging or a rolled beam entered into the construction of other than the
engine. We stamped the hulls entirely out of sheet steel. They were built indoors. In four months we
ran up a building at the River Rouge a third of a mile long, 350 feet wide, and 100 feet high, covering
more than thirteen acres. These boats were not built by marine engineers. They were built simply by
applying our production principles to a new product.
With the Armistice, we at once dropped the war and went back to peace.
*****
An able man is a man who can do things, and his ability to do things is dependent on what he has in
him. What he has in him depends on what he started with and what he has done to increase and
discipline it.
An educated man is not one whose memory is trained to carry a few dates in history—he is one who
can accomplish things. A man who cannot think is not an educated man however many college degrees
he may have acquired. Thinking is the hardest work any one can do—which is probably the reason
why we have so few thinkers. There are two extremes to be avoided: one is the attitude of contempt
toward education, the other is the tragic snobbery of assuming that marching through an educational
system is a sure cure for ignorance and mediocrity. You cannot learn in any school what the world is
going to do next year, but you can learn some of the things which the world has tried to do in former
years, and where it failed and where it succeeded. If education consisted in warning the young student
away from some of the false theories on which men have tried to build, so that he may be saved the
loss of the time in finding out by bitter experience, its good would be unquestioned. An education
which consists of signposts indicating the failure and the fallacies of the past doubtless would be very
useful. It is not education just to possess the theories of a lot of professors. Speculation is very
interesting, and sometimes profitable, but it is not education. To be learned in science to-day is merely
to be aware of a hundred theories that have not been proved. And not to know what those theories are
is to be "uneducated," "ignorant," and so forth. If knowledge of guesses is learning, then one may
become learned by the simple expedient of making his own guesses. And by the same token he can
dub the rest of the world "ignorant" because it does not know what his guesses are. But the best that
education can do for a man is to put him in possession of his powers, give him control of the tools with
which destiny has endowed him, and teach him how to think. The college renders its best service as an
intellectual gymnasium, in which mental muscle is developed and the student strengthened to do what
he can. To say, however, that mental gymnastics can be had only in college is not true, as every
educator knows. A man's real education begins after he has left school. True education is gained
through the discipline of life.
There are many kinds of knowledge, and it depends on what crowd you happen to be in, or how the
fashions of the day happen to run, which kind of knowledge, is most respected at the moment. There
are fashions in knowledge, just as there are in everything else. When some of us were lads, knowledge
used to be limited to the Bible. There were certain men in the neighbourhood who knew the Book
thoroughly, and they were looked up to and respected. Biblical knowledge was highly valued then. But
nowadays it is doubtful whether deep acquaintance with the Bible would be sufficient to win a man a
name for learning.
Knowledge, to my mind, is something that in the past somebody knew and left in a form which enables
all who will to obtain it. If a man is born with normal human faculties, if he is equipped with enough
ability to use the tools which we call "letters" in reading or writing, there is no knowledge within the
possession of the race that he cannot have—if he wants it! The only reason why every man does not
know everything that the human mind has ever learned is that no one has ever yet found it worth while
to know that much. Men satisfy their minds more by finding out things for themselves than by heaping
together the things which somebody else has found out. You can go out and gather knowledge all your
life, and with all your gathering you will not catch up even with your own times. You may fill your
head with all the "facts" of all the ages, and your head may be just an overloaded fact-box when you
get through. The point is this: Great piles of knowledge in the head are not the same as mental activity.
A man may be very learned and very useless. And then again, a man may be unlearned and very
useful.
The object of education is not to fill a man's mind with facts; it is to teach him how to use his mind in
thinking. And it often happens that a man can think better if he is not hampered by the knowledge of
the past.
It is a very human tendency to think that what mankind does not yet know no one can learn. And yet it
must be perfectly clear to everyone that the past learning of mankind cannot be allowed to hinder our
future learning. Mankind has not gone so very far when you measure its progress against the
knowledge that is yet to be gained—the secrets that are yet to be learned.
One good way to hinder progress is to fill a man's head with all the learning of the past; it makes him
feel that because his head is full, there is nothing more to learn. Merely gathering knowledge may
become the most useless work a man can do. What can you do to help and heal the world? That is the
educational test. If a man can hold up his own end, he counts for one. If he can help ten or a hundred or
a thousand other men hold up their ends, he counts for more. He may be quite rusty on many things
that inhabit the realm of print, but he is a learned man just the same. When a man is master of his own
sphere, whatever it may be, he has won his degree—he has entered the realm of wisdom.
*****
The work which we describe as Studies in the Jewish Question, and which is variously described by
antagonists as "the Jewish campaign," "the attack on the Jews," "the anti-Semitic pogrom," and so
forth, needs no explanation to those who have followed it. Its motives and purposes must be judged by
the work itself. It is offered as a contribution to a question which deeply affects the country, a question
which is racial at its source, and which concerns influences and ideals rather than persons. Our
statements must be judged by candid readers who are intelligent enough to lay our words alongside life
as they are able to observe it. If our word and their observation agree, the case is made. It is perfectly
silly to begin to damn us before it has been shown that our statements are baseless or reckless. The first
item to be considered is the truth of what we have set forth. And that is precisely the item which our
critics choose to evade.
Readers of our articles will see at once that we are not actuated by any kind of prejudice, except it may
be a prejudice in favor of the principles which have made our civilization. There had been observed in
this country certain streams of influence which were causing a marked deterioration in our literature,
amusements, and social conduct; business was departing from its old-time substantial soundness; a
general letting down of standards was felt everywhere. It was not the robust coarseness of the white
man, the rude indelicacy, say, of Shakespeare's characters, but a nasty Orientalism which has
insidiously affected every channel of expression—and to such an extent that it was time to challenge it.
The fact that these influences are all traceable to one racial source is a fact to be reckoned with, not by
us only, but by the intelligent people of the race in question. It is entirely creditable to them that steps
have been taken by them to remove their protection from the more flagrant violators of American
hospitality, but there is still room to discard outworn ideas of racial superiority maintained by
economic or intellectually subversive warfare upon Christian society.
Our work does not pretend to say the last word on the Jew in America. It says only the word which
describes his obvious present impress on the country. When that impress is changed, the report of it
can be changed. For the present, then, the question is wholly in the Jews' hands. If they are as wise as
they claim to be, they will labour to make Jews American, instead of labouring to make America
Jewish. The genius of the United States of America is Christian in the broadest sense, and its destiny is
to remain Christian. This carries no sectarian meaning with it, but relates to a basic principle which
differs from other principles in that it provides for liberty with morality, and pledges society to a code
of relations based on fundamental Christian conceptions of human rights and duties.
As for prejudice or hatred against persons, that is neither American nor Christian. Our opposition is
only to ideas, false ideas, which are sapping the moral stamina of the people. These ideas proceed from
easily identified sources, they are promulgated by easily discoverable methods; and they are controlled
by mere exposure. We have simply used the method of exposure. When people learn to identify the
source and nature of the influence swirling around them, it is sufficient. Let the American people once
understand that it is not natural degeneracy, but calculated subversion that afflicts us, and they are safe.
The explanation is the cure.
This work was taken up without personal motives. When it reached a stage where we believed the
American people could grasp the key, we let it rest for the time. Our enemies say that we began it for
revenge and that we laid it down in fear. Time will show that our critics are merely dealing in evasion
because they dare not tackle the main question. Time will also show that we are better friends to the
Jews' best interests than are those who praise them to their faces and criticize them behind their backs.
CHAPTER XVIII
DEMOCRACY AND INDUSTRY
Perhaps no word is more overworked nowadays than the word "democracy," and those who shout
loudest about it, I think, as a rule, want it least. I am always suspicious of men who speak glibly of
democracy. I wonder if they want to set up some kind of a despotism or if they want to have somebody
do for them what they ought to do for themselves. I am for the kind of democracy that gives to each an
equal chance according to his ability. I think if we give more attention to serving our fellows we shall
have less concern with the empty forms of government and more concern with the things to be done.
Thinking of service, we shall not bother about good feeling in industry or life; we shall not bother
about masses and classes, or closed and open shops, and such matters as have nothing at all to do with
the real business of living. We can get down to facts. We stand in need of facts.
It is a shock when the mind awakens to the fact that not all of humanity is human—that whole groups
of people do not regard others with humane feelings. Great efforts have been made to have this appear
as the attitude of a class, but it is really the attitude of all "classes," in so far as they are swayed by the
false notion of "classes." Before, when it was the constant effort of propaganda to make the people
believe that it was only the "rich" who were without humane feelings, the opinion became general that
among the "poor" the humane virtues flourished.
But the "rich" and the "poor" are both very small minorities, and you cannot classify society under
such heads. There are not enough "rich" and there are not enough "poor" to serve the purpose of such
classification. Rich men have become poor without changing their natures, and poor men have become
rich, and the problem has not been affected by it.
Between the rich and the poor is the great mass of the people who are neither rich nor poor. A society
made up exclusively of millionaires would not be different from our present society; some of the
millionaires would have to raise wheat and bake bread and make machinery and run trains—else they
would all starve to death. Someone must do the work. Really we have no fixed classes. We have men
who will work and men who will not. Most of the "classes" that one reads about are purely fictional.
Take certain capitalist papers. You will be amazed by some of the statements about the labouring class.
We who have been and still are a part of the labouring class know that the statements are untrue. Take
certain of the labour papers. You are equally amazed by some of the statements they make about
"capitalists." And yet on both sides there is a grain of truth. The man who is a capitalist and nothing
else, who gambles with the fruits of other men's labours, deserves all that is said against him. He is in
precisely the same class as the cheap gambler who cheats workingmen out of their wages. The
statements we read about the labouring class in the capitalistic press are seldom written by managers of
great industries, but by a class of writers who are writing what they think will please their employers.
They write what they imagine will please. Examine the labour press and you will find another class of
writers who similarly seek to tickle the prejudices which they conceive the labouring man to have.
Both kinds of writers are mere propagandists. And propaganda that does not spread facts is self-
destructive. And it should be. You cannot preach patriotism to men for the purpose of getting them to
stand still while you rob them—and get away with that kind of preaching very long. You cannot
preach the duty of working hard and producing plentifully, and make that a screen for an additional
profit to yourself. And neither can the worker conceal the lack of a day's work by a phrase.
Undoubtedly the employing class possesses facts which the employed ought to have in order to
construct sound opinions and pass fair judgments. Undoubtedly the employed possess facts which are
equally important to the employer. It is extremely doubtful, however, if either side has all the facts.
And this is where propaganda, even if it were possible for it to be entirely successful, is defective. It is
not desirable that one set of ideas be "put over" on a class holding another set of ideas. What we really
need is to get all the ideas together and construct from them.
Take, for instance, this whole matter of union labour and the right to strike.
The only strong group of union men in the country is the group that draws salaries from the unions.
Some of them are very rich. Some of them are interested in influencing the affairs of our large
institutions of finance. Others are so extreme in their so-called socialism that they border on
Bolshevism and anarchism—their union salaries liberating them from the necessity of work so that
they can devote their energies to subversive propaganda. All of them enjoy a certain prestige and
power which, in the natural course of competition, they could not otherwise have won.
If the official personnel of the labour unions were as strong, as honest, as decent, and as plainly wise as
the bulk of the men who make up the membership, the whole movement would have taken on a
different complexion these last few years. But this official personnel, in the main—there are notable
exceptions—has not devoted itself to an alliance with the naturally strong qualities of the workingman;
it has rather devoted itself to playing upon his weaknesses, principally upon the weaknesses of that
newly arrived portion of the population which does not yet know what Americanism is, and which
never will know if left to the tutelage of their local union leaders.
The workingmen, except those few who have been inoculated with the fallacious doctrine of "the class
war" and who have accepted the philosophy that progress consists in fomenting discord in industry
("When you get your $12 a day, don't stop at that. Agitate for $14. When you get your eight hours a
day, don't be a fool and grow contented; agitate for six hours. Start something! Always start
something!"), have the plain sense which enables them to recognize that with principles accepted and
observed, conditions change. The union leaders have never seen that. They wish conditions to remain
as they are, conditions of injustice, provocation, strikes, bad feeling, and crippled national life. Else
where would be the need for union officers? Every strike is a new argument for them; they point to it
and say, "You see! You still need us."
The only true labour leader is the one who leads labour to work and to wages, and not the leader who
leads labour to strikes, sabotage, and starvation. The union of labour which is coming to the fore in this
country is the union of all whose interests are interdependent—whose interests are altogether
dependent on the usefulness and efficiency of the service they render.
There is a change coming. When the union of "union leaders" disappears, with it will go the union of
blind bosses—bosses who never did a decent thing for their employees until they were compelled. If
the blind boss was a disease, the selfish union leader was the antidote. When the union leader became
the disease, the blind boss became the antidote. Both are misfits, both are out of place in well-
organized society. And they are both disappearing together.
It is the blind boss whose voice is heard to-day saying, "Now is the time to smash labour, we've got
them on the run." That voice is going down to silence with the voice that preaches "class war." The
producers—from the men at the drawing board to the men on the moulding floor—have gotten
together in a real union, and they will handle their own affairs henceforth.
The exploitation of dissatisfaction is an established business to-day. Its object is not to settle anything,
nor to get anything done, but to keep dissatisfaction in existence. And the instruments used to do this
are a whole set of false theories and promises which can never be fulfilled as long as the earth remains
what it is.
I am not opposed to labour organization. I am not opposed to any sort of organization that makes for
progress. It is organizing to limit production—whether by employers or by workers—that matters.
The workingman himself must be on guard against some very dangerous notions—dangerous to
himself and to the welfare of the country. It is sometimes said that the less a worker does, the more
jobs he creates for other men. This fallacy assumes that idleness is creative. Idleness never created a
job. It creates only burdens. The industrious man never runs his fellow worker out of a job; indeed, it is
the industrious man who is the partner of the industrious manager—who creates more and more
business and therefore more and more jobs. It is a great pity that the idea should ever have gone abroad
among sensible men that by "soldiering" on the job they help someone else. A moment's thought will
show the weakness of such an idea. The healthy business, the business that is always making more and
more opportunities for men to earn an honourable and ample living, is the business in which every man
does a day's work of which he is proud. And the country that stands most securely is the country in
which men work honestly and do not play tricks with the means of production. We cannot play fast
and loose with economic laws, because if we do they handle us in very hard ways.
The fact that a piece of work is now being done by nine men which used to be done by ten men does
not mean that the tenth man is unemployed. He is merely not employed on that work, and the public is
not carrying the burden of his support by paying more than it ought on that work—for after all, it is the
public that pays!
An industrial concern which is wide enough awake to reorganize for efficiency, and honest enough
with the public to charge it necessary costs and no more, is usually such an enterprising concern that it
has plenty of jobs at which to employ the tenth man. It is bound to grow, and growth means jobs. A
well-managed concern is always seeking to lower the labour cost to the public; and it is certain to
employ more men than the concern which loafs along and makes the public pay the cost of its
mismanagement.
The tenth man was an unnecessary cost. The ultimate consumer was paying him. But the fact that he
was unnecessary on that particular job does not mean that he is unnecessary in the work of the world,
or even in the work of his particular shop.
The public pays for all mismanagement. More than half the trouble with the world to-day is the
"soldiering" and dilution and cheapness and inefficiency for which the people are paying their good
money. Wherever two men are being paid for what one can do, the people are paying double what they
ought. And it is a fact that only a little while ago in the United States, man for man, we were not
producing what we did for several years previous to the war.
A day's work means more than merely being "on duty" at the shop for the required number of hours. It
means giving an equivalent in service for the wage drawn. And when that equivalent is tampered with
either way—when the man gives more than he receives, or receives more than he gives—it is not long
before serious dislocation will be manifest. Extend that condition throughout the country, and you have
a complete upset of business. All that industrial difficulty means is the destruction of basic equivalents
in the shop. Management must share the blame with labour. Management has been lazy, too.
Management has found it easier to hire an additional five hundred men than to so improve its methods
that one hundred men of the old force could be released to other work. The public was paying, and
business was booming, and management didn't care a pin. It was no different in the office from what it
was in the shop. The law of equivalents was broken just as much by managers as by workmen.
Practically nothing of importance is secured by mere demand. That is why strikes always fail—even
though they may seem to succeed. A strike which brings higher wages or shorter hours and passes on
the burden to the community is really unsuccessful. It only makes the industry less able to serve—and
decreases the number of jobs that it can support. This is not to say that no strike is justified—it may
draw attention to an evil. Men can strike with justice—that they will thereby get justice is another
question. The strike for proper conditions and just rewards is justifiable. The pity is that men should be
compelled to use the strike to get what is theirs by right. No American ought to be compelled to strike
for his rights. He ought to receive them naturally, easily, as a matter of course. These justifiable strikes
are usually the employer's fault. Some employers are not fit for their jobs. The employment of men—
the direction of their energies, the arranging of their rewards in honest ratio to their production and to
the prosperity of the business—is no small job. An employer may be unfit for his job, just as a man at
the lathe may be unfit. Justifiable strikes are a sign that the boss needs another job—one that he can
handle. The unfit employer causes more trouble than the unfit employee. You can change the latter to
another more suitable job. But the former must usually be left to the law of compensation. The
justified strike, then, is one that need never have been called if the employer had done his work.
There is a second kind of strike—the strike with a concealed design. In this kind of strike the
workingmen are made the tools of some manipulator who seeks his own ends through them. To
illustrate: Here is a great industry whose success is due to having met a public need with efficient and
skillful production. It has a record for justice. Such an industry presents a great temptation to
speculators. If they can only gain control of it they can reap rich benefit from all the honest effort that
has been put into it. They can destroy its beneficiary wage and profit-sharing, squeeze every last dollar
out of the public, the product, and the workingman, and reduce it to the plight of other business
concerns which are run on low principles. The motive may be the personal greed of the speculators or
they may want to change the policy of a business because its example is embarrassing to other
employers who do not want to do what is right. The industry cannot be touched from within, because
its men have no reason to strike. So another method is adopted. The business may keep many outside
shops busy supplying it with material. If these outside shops can be tied up, then that great industry
may be crippled.
So strikes are fomented in the outside industries. Every attempt is made to curtail the factory's source
of supplies. If the workingmen in the outside shops knew what the game was, they would refuse to
play it, but they don't know; they serve as the tools of designing capitalists without knowing it. There
is one point, however, that ought to rouse the suspicions of workingmen engaged in this kind of strike.
If the strike cannot get itself settled, no matter what either side offers to do, it is almost positive proof
that there is a third party interested in having the strike continue. That hidden influence does not want
a settlement on any terms. If such a strike is won by the strikers, is the lot of the workingman
improved? After throwing the industry into the hands of outside speculators, are the workmen given
any better treatment or wages?
There is a third kind of strike—the strike that is provoked by the money interests for the purpose of
giving labour a bad name. The American workman has always had a reputation for sound judgment.
He has not allowed himself to be led away by every shouter who promised to create the millennium
out of thin air. He has had a mind of his own and has used it. He has always recognized the
fundamental truth that the absence of reason was never made good by the presence of violence. In his
way the American workingman has won a certain prestige with his own people and throughout the
world. Public opinion has been inclined to regard with respect his opinions and desires. But there
seems to be a determined effort to fasten the Bolshevik stain on American Labour by inciting it to such
impossible attitudes and such wholly unheard-of actions as shall change public sentiment from respect
to criticism. Merely avoiding strikes, however, does not promote industry. We may say to the
workingman:
"You have a grievance, but the strike is no remedy—it only makes the situation worse whether you
win or lose."
Then the workingman may admit this to be true and refrain from striking.
Does that settle anything?
No! If the worker abandons strikes as an unworthy means of bringing about desirable conditions, it
simply means that employers must get busy on their own initiative and correct defective conditions.
The experience of the Ford industries with the workingman has been entirely satisfactory, both in the
United States and abroad. We have no antagonism to unions, but we participate in no arrangements
with either employee or employer organizations. The wages paid are always higher than any
reasonable union could think of demanding and the hours of work are always shorter. There is nothing
that a union membership could do for our people. Some of them may belong to unions, probably the
majority do not. We do not know and make no attempt to find out, for it is a matter of not the slightest
concern to us. We respect the unions, sympathize with their good aims and denounce their bad ones. In
turn I think that they give us respect, for there has never been any authoritative attempt to come
between the men and the management in our plants. Of course radical agitators have tried to stir up
trouble now and again, but the men have mostly regarded them simply as human oddities and their
interest in them has been the same sort of interest that they would have in a four-legged man.
In England we did meet the trades union question squarely in our Manchester plant. The workmen of
Manchester are mostly unionized, and the usual English union restrictions upon output prevail. We
took over a body plant in which were a number of union carpenters. At once the union officers asked
to see our executives and arrange terms. We deal only with our own employees and never with outside
representatives, so our people refused to see the union officials. Thereupon they called the carpenters
out on strike. The carpenters would not strike and were expelled from the union. Then the expelled
men brought suit against the union for their share of the benefit fund. I do not know how the litigation
turned out, but that was the end of interference by trades union officers with our operations in England.
We make no attempt to coddle the people who work with us. It is absolutely a give-and-take relation.
During the period in which we largely increased wages we did have a considerable supervisory force.
The home life of the men was investigated and an effort was made to find out what they did with their
wages. Perhaps at the time it was necessary; it gave us valuable information. But it would not do at all
as a permanent affair and it has been abandoned.
We do not believe in the "glad hand," or the professionalized "personal touch," or "human element." It
is too late in the day for that sort of thing. Men want something more than a worthy sentiment. Social
conditions are not made out of words. They are the net result of the daily relations between man and
man. The best social spirit is evidenced by some act which costs the management something and
which benefits all. That is the only way to prove good intentions and win respect. Propaganda,
bulletins, lectures—they are nothing. It is the right act sincerely done that counts.
A great business is really too big to be human. It grows so large as to supplant the personality of the
man. In a big business the employer, like the employee, is lost in the mass. Together they have created
a great productive organization which sends out articles that the world buys and pays for in return
money that provides a livelihood for everyone in the business. The business itself becomes the big
thing.
There is something sacred about a big business which provides a living for hundreds and thousands of
families. When one looks about at the babies coming into the world, at the boys and girls going to
school, at the young workingmen who, on the strength of their jobs, are marrying and setting up for
themselves, at the thousands of homes that are being paid for on installments out of the earnings of
men—when one looks at a great productive organization that is enabling all these things to be done,
then the continuance of that business becomes a holy trust. It becomes greater and more important than
the individuals.
The employer is but a man like his employees and is subject to all the limitations of humanity. He is
justified in holding his job only as he can fill it. If he can steer the business straight, if his men can
trust him to run his end of the work properly and without endangering their security, then he is filling
his place. Otherwise he is no more fit for his position than would be an infant. The employer, like
everyone else, is to be judged solely by his ability. He may be but a name to the men—a name on a
signboard. But there is the business—it is more than a name. It produces the living—and a living is a
pretty tangible thing. The business is a reality. It does things. It is a going concern. The evidence of its
fitness is that the pay envelopes keep coming.
You can hardly have too much harmony in business. But you can go too far in picking men because
they harmonize. You can have so much harmony that there will not be enough of the thrust and
counterthrust which is life—enough of the competition which means effort and progress. It is one thing
for an organization to be working harmoniously toward one object, but it is another thing for an
organization to work harmoniously with each individual unit of itself. Some organizations use up so
much energy and time maintaining a feeling of harmony that they have no force left to work for the
object for which the organization was created. The organization is secondary to the object. The only
harmonious organization that is worth anything is an organization in which all the members are bent
on the one main purpose—to get along toward the objective. A common purpose, honestly believed in,
sincerely desired—that is the great harmonizing principle.
I pity the poor fellow who is so soft and flabby that he must always have "an atmosphere of good
feeling" around him before he can do his work. There are such men. And in the end, unless they obtain
enough mental and moral hardiness to lift them out of their soft reliance on "feeling," they are failures.
Not only are they business failures; they are character failures also; it is as if their bones never attained
a sufficient degree of hardness to enable them to stand on their own feet. There is altogether too much
reliance on good feeling in our business organizations. People have too great a fondness for working
with the people they like. In the end it spoils a good many valuable qualities.
Do not misunderstand me; when I use the term "good feeling" I mean that habit of making one's
personal likes and dislikes the sole standard of judgment. Suppose you do not like a man. Is that
anything against him? It may be something against you. What have your likes or dislikes to do with the
facts? Every man of common sense knows that there are men whom he dislikes, who are really more
capable than he is himself.
And taking all this out of the shop and into the broader fields, it is not necessary for the rich to love the
poor or the poor to love the rich. It is not necessary for the employer to love the employee or for the
employee to love the employer. What is necessary is that each should try to do justice to the other
according to his deserts. That is real democracy and not the question of who ought to own the bricks
and the mortar and the furnaces and the mills. And democracy has nothing to do with the question,
"Who ought to be boss?"
That is very much like asking: "Who ought to be the tenor in the quartet?" Obviously, the man who
can sing tenor. You could not have deposed Caruso. Suppose some theory of musical democracy had
consigned Caruso to the musical proletariat. Would that have reared another tenor to take his place? Or
would Caruso's gifts have still remained his own?
CHAPTER XIX
WHAT WE MAY EXPECT
We are—unless I do not read the signs aright—in the midst of a change. It is going on all about us,
slowly and scarcely observed, but with a firm surety. We are gradually learning to relate cause and
effect. A great deal of that which we call disturbance—a great deal of the upset in what have seemed to
be established institutions—is really but the surface indication of something approaching a
regeneration. The public point of view is changing, and we really need only a somewhat different point
of view to make the very bad system of the past into a very good system of the future. We are
displacing that peculiar virtue which used to be admired as hard-headedness, and which was really
only wooden-headedness, with intelligence, and also we are getting rid of mushy sentimentalism. The
first confused hardness with progress; the second confused softness with progress. We are getting a
better view of the realities and are beginning to know that we have already in the world all things
needful for the fullest kind of a life and that we shall use them better once we learn what they are and
what they mean.
Whatever is wrong—and we all know that much is wrong—can be righted by a clear definition of the
wrongness. We have been looking so much at one another, at what one has and another lacks, that we
have made a personal affair out of something that is too big for personalities. To be sure, human nature
enters largely into our economic problems. Selfishness exists, and doubtless it colours all the
competitive activities of life. If selfishness were the characteristic of any one class it might be easily
dealt with, but it is in human fibre everywhere. And greed exists. And envy exists. And jealousy exists.
But as the struggle for mere existence grows less—and it is less than it used to be, although the sense
of uncertainty may have increased—we have an opportunity to release some of the finer motives. We
think less of the frills of civilization as we grow used to them. Progress, as the world has thus far
known it, is accompanied by a great increase in the things of life. There is more gear, more wrought
material, in the average American backyard than in the whole domain of an African king. The average
American boy has more paraphernalia around him than a whole Eskimo community. The utensils of
kitchen, dining room, bedroom, and coal cellar make a list that would have staggered the most
luxurious potentate of five hundred years ago. The increase in the impedimenta of life only marks a
stage. We are like the Indian who comes into town with all his money and buys everything he sees.
There is no adequate realization of the large proportion of the labour and material of industry that is
used in furnishing the world with its trumpery and trinkets, which are made only to be sold, and are
bought merely to be owned—that perform no service in the world and are at last mere rubbish as at
first they were mere waste. Humanity is advancing out of its trinket-making stage, and industry is
coming down to meet the world's needs, and thus we may expect further advancement toward that life
which many now see, but which the present "good enough" stage hinders our attaining.
And we are growing out of this worship of material possessions. It is no longer a distinction to be rich.
As a matter of fact, to be rich is no longer a common ambition. People do not care for money as
money, as they once did. Certainly they do not stand in awe of it, nor of him who possesses it. What
we accumulate by way of useless surplus does us no honour.
It takes only a moment's thought to see that as far as individual personal advantage is concerned, vast
accumulations of money mean nothing. A human being is a human being and is nourished by the same
amount and quality of food, is warmed by the same weight of clothing, whether he be rich or poor.
And no one can inhabit more than one room at a time.
But if one has visions of service, if one has vast plans which no ordinary resources could possibly
realize, if one has a life ambition to make the industrial desert bloom like the rose, and the work-a-day
life suddenly blossom into fresh and enthusiastic human motives of higher character and efficiency,
then one sees in large sums of money what the farmer sees in his seed corn—the beginning of new and
richer harvests whose benefits can no more be selfishly confined than can the sun's rays.
There are two fools in this world. One is the millionaire who thinks that by hoarding money he can
somehow accumulate real power, and the other is the penniless reformer who thinks that if only he can
take the money from one class and give it to another, all the world's ills will be cured. They are both on
the wrong track. They might as well try to corner all the checkers or all the dominoes of the world
under the delusion that they are thereby cornering great quantities of skill. Some of the most successful
money-makers of our times have never added one pennyworth to the wealth of men. Does a card
player add to the wealth of the world?
If we all created wealth up to the limits, the easy limits, of our creative capacity, then it would simply
be a case of there being enough for everybody, and everybody getting enough. Any real scarcity of the
necessaries of life in the world—not a fictitious scarcity caused by the lack of clinking metallic disks
in one's purse—is due only to lack of production. And lack of production is due only too often to lack
of knowledge of how and what to produce.
*****
This much we must believe as a starting point:
That the earth produces, or is capable of producing, enough to give decent sustenance to everyone—
not of food alone, but of everything else we need. For everything is produced from the earth.
That it is possible for labour, production, distribution, and reward to be so organized as to make certain
that those who contribute shall receive shares determined by an exact justice.
That regardless of the frailties of human nature, our economic system can be so adjusted that
selfishness, although perhaps not abolished, can be robbed of power to work serious economic
injustice.
*****
The business of life is easy or hard according to the skill or the lack of skill displayed in production
and distribution. It has been thought that business existed for profit. That is wrong. Business exists for
service. It is a profession, and must have recognized professional ethics, to violate which declasses a
man. Business needs more of the professional spirit. The professional spirit seeks professional
integrity, from pride, not from compulsion. The professional spirit detects its own violations and
penalizes them. Business will some day become clean. A machine that stops every little while is an
imperfect machine, and its imperfection is within itself. A body that falls sick every little while is a
diseased body, and its disease is within itself. So with business. Its faults, many of them purely the
faults of the moral constitution of business, clog its progress and make it sick every little while. Some
day the ethics of business will be universally recognized, and in that day business will be seen to be the
oldest and most useful of all the professions.
*****
All that the Ford industries have done—all that I have done—is to endeavour to evidence by works
that service comes before profit and that the sort of business which makes the world better for its
presence is a noble profession. Often it has come to me that what is regarded as the somewhat
remarkable progression of our enterprises—I will not say "success," for that word is an epitaph, and
we are just starting—is due to some accident; and that the methods which we have used, while well
enough in their way, fit only the making of our particular products and would not do at all in any other
line of business or indeed for any products or personalities other than our own.
It used to be taken for granted that our theories and our methods were fundamentally unsound. That is
because they were not understood. Events have killed that kind of comment, but there remains a
wholly sincere belief that what we have done could not be done by any other company—that we have
been touched by a wand, that neither we nor any one else could make shoes, or hats, or sewing
machines, or watches, or typewriters, or any other necessity after the manner in which we make
automobiles and tractors. And that if only we ventured into other fields we should right quickly
discover our errors. I do not agree with any of this. Nothing has come out of the air. The foregoing
pages should prove that. We have nothing that others might not have. We have had no good fortune
except that which always attends any one who puts his best into his work. There was nothing that
could be called "favorable" about our beginning. We began with almost nothing. What we have, we
earned, and we earned it by unremitting labour and faith in a principle. We took what was a luxury and
turned it into a necessity and without trick or subterfuge. When we began to make our present motor
car the country had few good roads, gasoline was scarce, and the idea was firmly implanted in the
public mind that an automobile was at the best a rich man's toy. Our only advantage was lack of
precedent.
We began to manufacture according to a creed—a creed which was at that time unknown in business.
The new is always thought odd, and some of us are so constituted that we can never get over thinking
that anything which is new must be odd and probably queer. The mechanical working out of our creed
is constantly changing. We are continually finding new and better ways of putting it into practice, but
we have not found it necessary to alter the principles, and I cannot imagine how it might ever be
necessary to alter them, because I hold that they are absolutely universal and must lead to a better and
wider life for all.
If I did not think so I would not keep working—for the money that I make is inconsequent. Money is
useful only as it serves to forward by practical example the principle that business is justified only as it
serves, that it must always give more to the community than it takes away, and that unless everybody
benefits by the existence of a business then that business should not exist. I have proved this with
automobiles and tractors. I intend to prove it with railways and public-service corporations—not for
my personal satisfaction and not for the money that may be earned. (It is perfectly impossible,
applying these principles, to avoid making a much larger profit than if profit were the main object.) I
want to prove it so that all of us may have more, and that all of us may live better by increasing the
service rendered by all businesses. Poverty cannot be abolished by formula; it can be abolished only by
hard and intelligent work. We are, in effect, an experimental station to prove a principle. That we do
make money is only further proof that we are right. For that is a species of argument that establishes
itself without words.
In the first chapter was set forth the creed. Let me repeat it in the light of the work that has been done
under it—for it is at the basis of all our work:
(1) An absence of fear of the future or of veneration for the past. One who fears the future, who fears
failure, limits his activities. Failure is only the opportunity more intelligently to begin again. There is
no disgrace in honest failure; there is disgrace in fearing to fail. What is past is useful only as it
suggests ways and means for progress.
(2) A disregard of competition. Whoever does a thing best ought to be the one to do it. It is criminal to
try to get business away from another man—criminal because one is then trying to lower for personal
gain the condition of one's fellow-men, to rule by force instead of by intelligence.
(3) The putting of service before profit. Without a profit, business cannot extend. There is nothing
inherently wrong about making a profit. Well-conducted business enterprises cannot fail to return a
profit but profit must and inevitably will come as a reward for good service. It cannot be the basis—it
must be the result of service.
(4) Manufacturing is not buying low and selling high. It is the process of buying materials fairly and,
with the smallest possible addition of cost, transforming those materials into a consumable product and
distributing it to the consumer. Gambling, speculating, and sharp dealing tend only to clog this
progression.
*****
We must have production, but it is the spirit behind it that counts most. That kind of production which
is a service inevitably follows a real desire to be of service. The various wholly artificial rules set up
for finance and industry and which pass as "laws" break down with such frequency as to prove that
they are not even good guesses. The basis of all economic reasoning is the earth and its products. To
make the yield of the earth, in all its forms, large enough and dependable enough to serve as the basis
for real life—the life which is more than eating and sleeping—is the highest service. That is the real
foundation for an economic system. We can make things—the problem of production has been solved
brilliantly. We can make any number of different sort of things by the millions. The material mode of
our life is splendidly provided for. There are enough processes and improvements now pigeonholed
and awaiting application to bring the physical side of life to almost millennial completeness. But we
are too wrapped up in the things we are doing—we are not enough concerned with the reasons why we
do them. Our whole competitive system, our whole creative expression, all the play of our faculties
seem to be centred around material production and its by-products of success and wealth.
There is, for instance, a feeling that personal or group benefit can be had at the expense of other
persons or groups. There is nothing to be gained by crushing any one. If the farmer's bloc should crush
the manufacturers would the farmers be better off? If the manufacturer's bloc should crush the farmers,
would the manufacturers be better off? Could Capital gain by crushing Labour? Or Labour by crushing
Capital? Or does a man in business gain by crushing a competitor? No, destructive competition
benefits no one. The kind of competition which results in the defeat of the many and the overlordship
of the ruthless few must go. Destructive competition lacks the qualities out of which progress comes.
Progress comes from a generous form of rivalry. Bad competition is personal. It works for the
aggrandizement of some individual or group. It is a sort of warfare. It is inspired by a desire to "get"
someone. It is wholly selfish. That is to say, its motive is not pride in the product, nor a desire to excel
in service, nor yet a wholesome ambition to approach to scientific methods of production. It is moved
simply by the desire to crowd out others and monopolize the market for the sake of the money returns.
That being accomplished, it always substitutes a product of inferior quality.
*****
Freeing ourselves from the petty sort of destructive competition frees us from many set notions. We
are too closely tied to old methods and single, one-way uses. We need more mobility. We have been
using certain things just one way, we have been sending certain goods through only one channel—and
when that use is slack, or that channel is stopped, business stops, too, and all the sorry consequences of
"depression" set in. Take corn, for example. There are millions upon millions of bushels of corn stored
in the United States with no visible outlet. A certain amount of corn is used as food for man and beast,
but not all of it. In pre-Prohibition days a certain amount of corn went into the making of liquor, which
was not a very good use for good corn. But through a long course of years corn followed those two
channels, and when one of them stopped the stocks of corn began to pile up. It is the money fiction that
usually retards the movement of stocks, but even if money were plentiful we could not possibly
consume the stores of food which we sometimes possess.
If foodstuffs become too plentiful to be consumed as food, why not find other uses for them? Why use
corn only for hogs and distilleries? Why sit down and bemoan the terrible disaster that has befallen the
corn market? Is there no use for corn besides the making of pork or the making of whisky? Surely
there must be. There should be so many uses for corn that only the important uses could ever be fully
served; there ought always be enough channels open to permit corn to be used without waste.
Once upon a time the farmers burned corn as fuel—corn was plentiful and coal was scarce. That was a
crude way to dispose of corn, but it contained the germ of an idea. There is fuel in corn; oil and fuel
alcohol are obtainable from corn, and it is high time that someone was opening up this new use so that
the stored-up corn crops may be moved. Why have only one string to our bow? Why not two? If one
breaks, there is the other. If the hog business slackens, why should not the farmer turn his corn into
tractor fuel?
We need more diversity all round. The four-track system everywhere would not be a bad idea. We
have a single-track money system. It is a mighty fine system for those who own it. It is a perfect
system for the interest-collecting, credit-controlling financiers who literally own the commodity called
Money and who literally own the machinery by which money is made and used. Let them keep their
system if they like it. But the people are finding out that it is a poor system for what we call "hard
times" because it ties up the line and stops traffic. If there are special protections for the interests, there
ought also to be special protections for the plain people. Diversity of outlet, of use, and of financial
enablement, are the strongest defenses we can have against economic emergencies.
It is likewise with Labour. There surely ought to be flying squadrons of young men who would be
available for emergency conditions in harvest field, mine, shop, or railroad. If the fires of a hundred
industries threaten to go out for lack of coal, and one million men are menaced by unemployment, it
would seem both good business and good humanity for a sufficient number of men to volunteer for the
mines and the railroads. There is always something to be done in this world, and only ourselves to do
it. The whole world may be idle, and in the factory sense there may be "nothing to do." There may be
nothing to do in this place or that, but there is always something to do. It is this fact which should urge
us to such an organization of ourselves that this "something to be done" may get done, and
unemployment reduced to a minimum.
*****
Every advance begins in a small way and with the individual. The mass can be no better than the sum
of the individuals. Advancement begins within the man himself; when he advances from half-interest
to strength of purpose; when he advances from hesitancy to decisive directness; when he advances
from immaturity to maturity of judgment; when he advances from apprenticeship to mastery; when he
advances from a mere dilettante at labour to a worker who finds a genuine joy in work; when he
advances from an eye-server to one who can be entrusted to do his work without oversight and without
prodding—why, then the world advances! The advance is not easy. We live in flabby times when men
are being taught that everything ought to be easy. Work that amounts to anything will never be easy.
And the higher you go in the scale of responsibility, the harder becomes the job. Ease has its place, of
course. Every man who works ought to have sufficient leisure. The man who works hard should have
his easy chair, his comfortable fireside, his pleasant surroundings. These are his by right. But no one
deserves ease until after his work is done. It will never be possible to put upholstered ease into work.
Some work is needlessly hard. It can be lightened by proper management. Every device ought to be
employed to leave a man free to do a man's work. Flesh and blood should not be made to bear burdens
that steel can bear. But even when the best is done, work still remains work, and any man who puts
himself into his job will feel that it is work.
And there cannot be much picking and choosing. The appointed task may be less than was expected. A
man's real work is not always what he would have chosen to do. A man's real work is what he is
chosen to do. Just now there are more menial jobs than there will be in the future; and as long as there
are menial jobs, someone will have to do them; but there is no reason why a man should be penalized
because his job is menial. There is one thing that can be said about menial jobs that cannot be said
about a great many so-called more responsible jobs, and that is, they are useful and they are
respectable and they are honest.
The time has come when drudgery must be taken out of labour. It is not work that men object to, but
the element of drudgery. We must drive out drudgery wherever we find it. We shall never be wholly
civilized until we remove the treadmill from the daily job. Invention is doing this in some degree now.
We have succeeded to a very great extent in relieving men of the heavier and more onerous jobs that
used to sap their strength, but even when lightening the heavier labour we have not yet succeeded in
removing monotony. That is another field that beckons us—the abolition of monotony, and in trying to
accomplish that we shall doubtless discover other changes that will have to be made in our system.
*****
The opportunity to work is now greater than ever it was. The opportunity to advance is greater. It is
true that the young man who enters industry to-day enters a very different system from that in which
the young man of twenty-five years ago began his career. The system has been tightened up; there is
less play or friction in it; fewer matters are left to the haphazard will of the individual; the modern
worker finds himself part of an organization which apparently leaves him little initiative. Yet, with all
this, it is not true that "men are mere machines." It is not true that opportunity has been lost in
organization. If the young man will liberate himself from these ideas and regard the system as it is, he
will find that what he thought was a barrier is really an aid.
Factory organization is not a device to prevent the expansion of ability, but a device to reduce the
waste and losses due to mediocrity. It is not a device to hinder the ambitious, clear-headed man from
doing his best, but a device to prevent the don't-care sort of individual from doing his worst. That is to
say, when laziness, carelessness, slothfulness, and lack-interest are allowed to have their own way,
everybody suffers. The factory cannot prosper and therefore cannot pay living wages. When an
organization makes it necessary for the don't-care class to do better than they naturally would, it is for
their benefit—they are better physically, mentally, and financially. What wages should we be able to
pay if we trusted a large don't-care class to their own methods and gait of production?
If the factory system which brought mediocrity up to a higher standard operated also to keep ability
down to a lower standard—it would be a very bad system, a very bad system indeed. But a system,
even a perfect one, must have able individuals to operate it. No system operates itself. And the modern
system needs more brains for its operation than did the old. More brains are needed to-day than ever
before, although perhaps they are not needed in the same place as they once were. It is just like power:
formerly every machine was run by foot power; the power was right at the machine. But nowadays we
have moved the power back—concentrated it in the power-house. Thus also we have made it
unnecessary for the highest types of mental ability to be engaged in every operation in the factory. The
better brains are in the mental power-plant.
Every business that is growing is at the same time creating new places for capable men. It cannot help
but do so. This does not mean that new openings come every day and in groups. Not at all. They come
only after hard work; it is the fellow who can stand the gaff of routine and still keep himself alive and
alert who finally gets into direction. It is not sensational brilliance that one seeks in business, but
sound, substantial dependability. Big enterprises of necessity move slowly and cautiously. The young
man with ambition ought to take a long look ahead and leave an ample margin of time for things to
happen.
*****
A great many things are going to change. We shall learn to be masters rather than servants of Nature.
With all our fancied skill we still depend largely on natural resources and think that they cannot be
displaced. We dig coal and ore and cut down trees. We use the coal and the ore and they are gone; the
trees cannot be replaced within a lifetime. We shall some day harness the heat that is all about us and
no longer depend on coal—we may now create heat through electricity generated by water power. We
shall improve on that method. As chemistry advances I feel quite certain that a method will be found to
transform growing things into substances that will endure better than the metals—we have scarcely
touched the uses of cotton. Better wood can be made than is grown. The spirit of true service will
create for us. We have only each of us to do our parts sincerely.
*****
Everything is possible … "faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
THE BOOK ENDS
INDEX
Absentees discharged,
Accidents, safeguarding against; causes of
Advancement, personal
Advertisement, first, of Ford Motor Co.
Agents,
Agriculture, a primary function
Ainsley, Charles
Alexander, Henry, drives Ford car to top of Ben Nevis, 4,600 feet,
in 1911
Antecedents, a man's, of no interest in hiring at Ford factory
Assembly of a Ford car; first experiment in a moving assembly line,
April 1, 1913; results of the experiment
Automobile, public's first attitude toward
Automobile business, bad methods of; in its beginnings
Bankers play too great a part in business; in railroads
Banking,
Bedridden men at work,
Benz car on exhibition at Macy's in 1885,
Birds, Mr. Ford's fondness for
Blind men can work,
Bolshevism,
Bonuses—See "Profit-Sharing"
Borrowing money; what it would have meant to Ford Motor Co. in 1920
British Board of Agriculture,
British Cabinet and Fordson tractors,
Burroughs, John
Business, monopoly and profiteering bad for; function of
Buying for immediate needs only,
Cadillac Company,
Capital,
Capitalist newspapers,
Capitalists,
Cash balance, large
Charity, professional
City life,
"Classes" mostly fictional,
Classification of work at Ford plants,
Cleanliness of factory,
Coal used in Ford plants from Ford mines,
Coke ovens at River Rouge plant,
Collier, Colonel D. C.
Competition,
Consumption varies according to price and quality,
Convict labour,
Cooper, Tom
Cooperative farming,
Cork, Ireland, Fordson tractor plant
Corn, potential uses of
Costs of production, records of; prices force down; high wages
contribute to low
Country, living in
Courtney, F. S.
Creative work,
Creed, industrial, Mr. Ford's
Cripples can work,
Cross, John E.
Dalby, Prof. W. E.,
Deaf and dumb men at work,
Dearborn Independent,
Dearborn plant,
Democracy,
Detroit Automobile Co.,
Detroit General Hospital, now Ford Hospital,
Detroit, Toledo and Ironton Railway, purchased by Ford Motor Co.,
in March, 1921,
Development, opportunity for, in U. S.,
Diamond Manufacturing Co. fire,
Discipline at Ford plants,
"Dividends, abolish, rather than lower wages,"
Dividends, small, Ford policy of,
Doctors,
Dollar, the fluctuating,
Drudgery,
Eagle Boats,
Economy,
Edison, Thomas A.,
Educated man, an; definition of,
Education, Mr. Ford's ideas on,
Educational Department,
Electricity generated at Ford plants,
"Employees, all, are really partners,"
Employment Department,
Equal, all men are not,
Experience, lack of, no bar to employment,
Experiments, no record of, kept at Ford factories,
"Experts," no, at Ford plants,
Factory, Ford, growth of,

Factory organization, function of,
Failure, habit of,
Farming, lack of knowledge in, no conflict between, and industry,
future development in,
Farming with tractors,
Fear,
Federal Reserve System,
Fighting, a cause for immediate discharge,
Finance,
Financial crisis in 1921, how Ford Motor Co. met,
Financial system at present inadequate,
Firestone, Harvey S.,
Flat Rock plant,
Floor space for workers,
Flour-milling,
Foodstuffs, potential uses of,
Ford car—
the first, No. 5,000,000,
the second, introduction of,
in England in 1903,
about 5,000 parts in,
sales and production—See "Sales"
Ford, Henry—
Born at Dearborn, Mich., July 30, 1863,
mechanically inclined,
leaves school at seventeen, becomes apprentice at Drydock Engine
Works,
watch repairer,
works with local representative of Westinghouse Co. as expert in
setting up and repairing road engines,
builds a steam tractor in his workshop,
reads of the "silent gas engine" in the World of Science,
in 1887 builds one on the Otto four-cycle model,
father gives him forty acres of timber land,
marriage,
in 1890 begins work on double-cylinder engine,
leaves farm and works as engineer and machinist with the Detroit
Electric Co.,
rents house in Detroit and sets up workshop in back yard,
in 1892 completes first motor car,
first road test in 1893,
builds second motor car,
quits job with Electric Co. August 15, 1899, and goes into
automobile business,
organization of Detroit Automobile Co.,
resigns from, in 1902,
rents shop to continue experiments at 81 Park Place, Detroit,
beats Alexander Winton in race,
early reflections on business,
in 1903 builds, with Tom Cooper, two cars, the "999" and the
"Arrow" for speed,
forms the Ford Motor Co.,
buys controlling share in 1906,
builds "Model A,"
builds "Model B" and "Model C,"
makes a record in race over ice in the "Arrow,"
builds first real manufacturing plant, in May, 1908,
assembles 311 cars in six workings days,
in June, 1908, assembles one hundred cars in one day,
in 1909, decides to manufacture only "Model T," painted black,
buys sixty acres of land for plant at Highland Park, outside of
Detroit,
how he met the financial crises of 1921,
buys Detroit, Toledo & Ironton Ry., March, 1921,
"Ford doesn't use the Ford,"
Ford, Edsel,
Ford Hospital,
Ford Motor Co., organized 1903,
Henry Ford buys controlling share in 1906,
how it met financial crisis in 1921,
thirty-five branches of, in U. S.
"Ford, you can dissect it, but you cannot kill it,"
Fordson tractor,
prices,
genesis and development of,
cost of farming with,
5,000 sent to England in 1917-18,
Foreign trade,
Gas from coke ovens at River Rouge plant utilized,

"Gold is not wealth,"
"Good feeling" in working not essential, though desirable,
Government, the function of,
Greaves, R. N.,
Greed vs. service,
Greenhall, Gilbert,
Grosse Point track,
"Habit conduces to a certain inertia,"

Highland Park plant,
Hobbs, Robert W.,
Hospital, Ford,
Hough, Judge, renders decision against Ford Motor Co. in Selden
Patent suit,
Hours of labour per day reduced from nine to eight in January, 1914,
"Human, a great business is too big to be,"
Human element in business,
Ideas, old and new,

Improvements in products,
Interstate Commerce Commission,
Inventory, cutting down, by improved freight service,
Investment, interest on, not properly chargeable to operating expenses,
Jacobs, Edmund,
"Jail, men in, ought to be able to support their families,"
Jewish question, studies in the,
Jobs, menial,
"John R. Street,"
Labour,
the economic fundamental, and Capital, potential uses of,
Labour leaders,
Labour newspapers,
Labour turnover,
"Lawyers, like bankers, know absolutely nothing about business,"
Legislation, the function of,
Licensed Association,
"Life is not a location, but a journey,"
Light for working,
Loss, taking a; in times of business depression,
Manchester, Eng.,
Ford plant at,
strike at,
Machinery, its place in life,
Manufacture, a primary function,
Medical Department,
Mexico,
Milner, Lord,
Models—
"A,"
"B,"
"C,"
"F,"
"K,"
"N,"
"R,"
"S,"
"T,"
changing, not a Ford policy,
Money,
chasing,
present system of,
what it is worth,
invested in a business not chargeable to it,
fluctuating value of,
is not wealth,
Monopoly, bad for business,
Monotonous work,
Motion, waste, eliminating,
Northville, Mich., plant, combination farm and factory,
Oldfteld, Barney,
Opportunity for young men of today,
Organization, excess, and red tape,
Overman, Henry,
Otto engine,
Overhead charge per car, cut from $146 to $93,
Parts, about 5,000, in a Ford car,

Paternalism has no place in industry,
"Peace Ship"
Philanthropy,
Physical incapacity not necessarily a hindrance to working,
Physicians,
Piquette plant,
Poverty,
Power-farming,
Price policy, Mr. Ford's,
Producer depends upon service,
Production,
principles of Ford plant,
plan of, worked out carefully,
(For production of Ford cars, see "Sales" and table of
production on p. 145)
Professional charity,
Profiteering, bad for business,
Profit-sharing,
Property, the right of,
Profit, small per article, large aggregate,
Profits belong to planner, producer, and purchaser,
Price
raising,
reducing,
"Prices, If, of goods are above the incomes of the people, then get
the prices down to the incomes,"
"Prices, unduly high, always a sign of unsound business,"
Prices of Ford touring cars since 1909,
Prison laws,
"Prisoners ought to be able to support their families,"
Railroads,
active managers have ceased to manage,
suffering from bankers and lawyers,
folly of long hauls,
Reactionaries,
Red tape,
"Refinancing,"
Reformers,
Repetitive labour,
"Rich, It is no longer a distinction to be,"
Right of property,
River Rouge plant,
Routine work,
Royal Agricultural Society,
Rumours in 1920 that Ford Motor Co. was in a bad financial condition,
Russia, under Sovietism,
Safeguarding machines,
"Sales depend upon wages,"
Sales of Ford cars
in 1903-4, 1,708 cars,
in 1904-5, 1,695 cars,
in 1905-6, 1,599 cars,
in 1906-7, 8,423 cars,
in 1907-8, 6,398 cars,
in 1908-9, 10,607 cars,
in 1909-10, 18,664 cars,
in 1910-11, 84,528 cars,
see also table of production since 1909,
Saturation, point of,
Saving habit,
Schools,
trade,
Henry Ford Trade School,
Scottish Reliability Trials, test of Ford car in
Scrap, utilization of,
Seasonal unemployment,
Selden, George B.,
Selden Patent,
famous suit against Ford Motor Co., in 1909,
Service,
principles of,
"the foundation of real business,"
"comes before profit,"
Simplicity, philosophy of,
Social Department,
Sorensen, Charles E.,
Standard Oil Co.,
Standardization,
Statistics abolished in 1920,
Steel, vanadium,
Strelow's carpenter shop,
Strike, the right to,
Strikes,
why, fail,
Suggestions from employees,
Surgeons' fees,
Sweepings, saving, nets $6,000 a year,
Titles, no, to jobs at Ford factory,

Tractor—See "Fordson"
Trade, foreign,
Trade schools,
Henry Ford Trade School
Training, little, required for jobs at Ford plants,
Transportation, a primary function,
Turnover of goods,
Union labour,
Universal car, essential attributes of,
Vanadium steel,
Ventilation of factory,
Wages,
minimum of $6 a day at all Ford plants,
are partnership distributions,
fallacy of regulating, on basis of cost of, living,
sales depend upon,
minimum of $5 a day introduced in January, 1914,
danger in rapidly raising,
cutting, a slovenly way to meet business depression,
high, contribute to low cost,
abolish dividends rather than lower,
War,
opposition to,
Ford industries in the,
Waste,
vs. service,
eliminating,
Weeks-McLean Bird Bill,
Weight, excess, in an automobile,
Welfare work—See "Social Department," "Medical
Department," and "Educational Department."
Winton, Alexander,
Women, married, whose husbands have jobs, not employed at Ford plants,
Work,
its place in life,
the right to
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Title: Dream Psychology

Psychoanalysis for Beginners
Author: Sigmund Freud
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DREAM PSYCHOLOGY
PSYCHOANALYSIS FOR BEGINNERS
BY
PROF. DR. SIGMUND FREUD
AUTHORIZED ENGLISH TRANSLATION

BY
M. D. EDER
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ANDRÉ TRIDON
Author of "Psychoanalysis, its History, Theory and Practice." "Psychoanalysis and Behavior" and "Psychoanalysis, Sleep
and Dreams"
NEW YORK
THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY
1920
THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

INTRODUCTION
The medical profession is justly conservative. Human life should not be considered as the proper
material for wild experiments.
Conservatism, however, is too often a welcome excuse for lazy minds, loath to adapt themselves to
fast changing conditions.
Remember the scornful reception which first was accorded to Freud's discoveries in the domain of the
unconscious.
When after years of patient observations, he finally decided to appear before medical bodies to tell
them modestly of some facts which always recurred in his dream and his patients' dreams, he was first
laughed at and then avoided as a crank.
The words "dream interpretation" were and still are indeed fraught with unpleasant, unscientific
associations. They remind one of all sorts of childish, superstitious notions, which make up the thread
and woof of dream books, read by none but the ignorant and the primitive.
The wealth of detail, the infinite care never to let anything pass unexplained, with which he
presented to the public the result of his investigations, are impressing more and more serious-minded
scientists, but the examination of his evidential data demands arduous work and presupposes an
absolutely open mind.
This is why we still encounter men, totally unfamiliar with Freud's writings, men who were not even
interested enough in the subject to attempt an interpretation of their dreams or their patients' dreams,
deriding Freud's theories and combatting them with the help of statements which he never made.
Some of them, like Professor Boris Sidis, reach at times conclusions which are strangely similar to
Freud's, but in their ignorance of psychoanalytic literature, they fail to credit Freud for observations
antedating theirs.
Besides those who sneer at dream study, because they have never looked into the subject, there are
those who do not dare to face the facts revealed by dream study. Dreams tell us many an unpleasant
biological truth about ourselves and only very free minds can thrive on such a diet. Self-deception is a
plant which withers fast in the pellucid atmosphere of dream investigation.
The weakling and the neurotic attached to his neurosis are not anxious to turn such a
powerful searchlight upon the dark corners of their psychology.
Freud's theories are anything but theoretical.
He was moved by the fact that there always seemed to be a close connection between his patients'
dreams and their mental abnormalities, to collect thousands of dreams and to compare them with the
case histories in his possession.
He did not start out with a preconceived bias, hoping to find evidence which might support his views.
He looked at facts a thousand times "until they began to tell him something."
His attitude toward dream study was, in other words, that of a statistician who does not know, and has
no means of foreseeing, what conclusions will be forced on him by the information he is gathering, but
who is fully prepared to accept those unavoidable conclusions.
This was indeed a novel way in psychology. Psychologists had always been wont to build, in what
Bleuler calls "autistic ways," that is through methods in no wise supported by evidence, some
attractive hypothesis, which sprung from their brain, like Minerva from Jove's brain, fully armed.
After which, they would stretch upon that unyielding frame the hide of a reality which they had
previously killed.
It is only to minds suffering from the same distortions, to minds also autistically inclined, that those
empty, artificial structures appear acceptable molds for philosophic thinking.
The pragmatic view that "truth is what works" had not been as yet expressed when Freud published his
revolutionary views on the psychology of dreams.
Five facts of first magnitude were made obvious to the world by his interpretation of dreams.
First of all, Freud pointed out a constant connection between some part of every dream and some detail
of the dreamer's life during the previous waking state. This positively establishes a relation between
sleeping states and waking states and disposes of the widely prevalent view that dreams are purely
nonsensical phenomena coming from nowhere and leading nowhere.
Secondly, Freud, after studying the dreamer's life and modes of thought, after noting down all his
mannerisms and the apparently insignificant details of his conduct which reveal his secret thoughts,
came to the conclusion that there was in every dream the attempted or successful gratification of some
wish, conscious or unconscious.
Thirdly, he proved that many of our dream visions are symbolical, which causes us to consider them as
absurd and unintelligible; the universality of those symbols, however, makes them very transparent to
the trained observer.
Fourthly, Freud showed that sexual desires play an enormous part in our unconscious, a part which
puritanical hypocrisy has always tried to minimize, if not to ignore entirely.
Finally, Freud established a direct connection between dreams and insanity, between the symbolic
visions of our sleep and the symbolic actions of the mentally deranged.
There were, of course, many other observations which Freud made while dissecting the dreams of his
patients, but not all of them present as much interest as the foregoing nor were they as revolutionary or
likely to wield as much influence on modern psychiatry.
Other explorers have struck the path blazed by Freud and leading into man's unconscious. Jung of
Zurich, Adler of Vienna and Kempf of Washington, D.C., have made to the study of the unconscious,
contributions which have brought that study into fields which Freud himself never dreamt of invading.
One fact which cannot be too emphatically stated, however, is that but for Freud's wishfulfillment
theory of dreams, neither Jung's "energic theory," nor Adler's theory of "organ inferiority and
compensation," nor Kempf's "dynamic mechanism" might have been formulated.
Freud is the father of modern abnormal psychology and he established the psychoanalytical point of
view. No one who is not well grounded in Freudian lore can hope to achieve any work of value in the
field of psychoanalysis.
On the other hand, let no one repeat the absurd assertion that Freudism is a sort of religion bounded
with dogmas and requiring an act of faith. Freudism as such was merely a stage in the development of
psychoanalysis, a stage out of which all but a few bigoted camp followers, totally lacking in
originality, have evolved. Thousands of stones have been added to the structure erected by the
Viennese physician and many more will be added in the course of time.
But the new additions to that structure would collapse like a house of cards but for the original
foundations which are as indestructible as Harvey's statement as to the circulation of the blood.
Regardless of whatever additions or changes have been made to the original structure, the analytic
point of view remains unchanged.
That point of view is not only revolutionising all the methods of diagnosis and treatment of mental
derangements, but compelling the intelligent, up-to-date physician to revise entirely his attitude to
almost every kind of disease.
The insane are no longer absurd and pitiable people, to be herded in asylums till nature either cures
them or relieves them, through death, of their misery. The insane who have not been made so by actual
injury to their brain or nervous system, are the victims of unconscious forces which cause them to do
abnormally things which they might be helped to do normally.
Insight into one's psychology is replacing victoriously sedatives and rest cures.
Physicians dealing with "purely" physical cases have begun to take into serious consideration the
"mental" factors which have predisposed a patient to certain ailments.
Freud's views have also made a revision of all ethical and social values unavoidable and have thrown
an unexpected flood of light upon literary and artistic accomplishment.
But the Freudian point of view, or more broadly speaking, the psychoanalytic point of view, shall ever
remain a puzzle to those who, from laziness or indifference, refuse to survey with the great Viennese
the field over which he carefully groped his way. We shall never be convinced until we repeat under
his guidance all his laboratory experiments.
We must follow him through the thickets of the unconscious, through the land which had never been
charted because academic philosophers, following the line of least effort, had decided a priori that it
could not be charted.
Ancient geographers, when exhausting their store of information about distant lands, yielded to an
unscientific craving for romance and, without any evidence to support their day dreams, filled the
blank spaces left on their maps by unexplored tracts with amusing inserts such as "Here there are
lions."
Thanks to Freud's interpretation of dreams the "royal road" into the unconscious is now open to all
explorers. They shall not find lions, they shall find man himself, and the record of all his life and of his
struggle with reality.
And it is only after seeing man as his unconscious, revealed by his dreams, presents him to us that we
shall understand him fully. For as Freud said to Putnam: "We are what we are because we have been
what we have been."
Not a few serious-minded students, however, have been discouraged from attempting a study of
Freud's dream psychology.
The book in which he originally offered to the world his interpretation of dreams was as circumstantial
as a legal record to be pondered over by scientists at their leisure, not to be assimilated in a few hours
by the average alert reader. In those days, Freud could not leave out any detail likely to make his
extremely novel thesis evidentially acceptable to those willing to sift data.
Freud himself, however, realized the magnitude of the task which the reading of his magnum
opus imposed upon those who have not been prepared for it by long psychological and scientific
training and he abstracted from that gigantic work the parts which constitute the essential of his
discoveries.
The publishers of the present book deserve credit for presenting to the reading public the gist of
Freud's psychology in the master's own words, and in a form which shall neither discourage beginners,
nor appear too elementary to those who are more advanced in psychoanalytic study.
Dream psychology is the key to Freud's works and to all modern psychology. With a simple, compact
manual such as Dream Psychology there shall be no longer any excuse for ignorance of the most
revolutionary psychological system of modern times.
ANDRE TRIDON.
121 Madison Avenue, New York.

November, 1920.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I DREAMS HAVE A MEANING 1
II THE DREAM MECHANISM 24
III WHY THE DREAM DISGUISES THE DESIRES 57
IV DREAM ANALYSIS 78
V SEX IN DREAMS 104
VI THE WISH IN DREAMS 135
VII THE FUNCTION OF THE DREAM 164
VIII THE PRIMARY AND SECONDARY PROCESS—REGRESSION 186
IX THE UNCONSCIOUS AND CONSCIOUSNESS—REALITY 220
DREAM PSYCHOLOGY
I
DREAMS HAVE A MEANING
In what we may term "prescientific days" people were in no uncertainty about the interpretation of
dreams. When they were recalled after awakening they were regarded as either the friendly or hostile
manifestation of some higher powers, demoniacal and Divine. With the rise of scientific thought the
whole of this expressive mythology was transferred to psychology; to-day there is but a small minority
among educated persons who doubt that the dream is the dreamer's own psychical act.
But since the downfall of the mythological hypothesis an interpretation of the dream has been wanting.
The conditions of its origin; its relationship to our psychical life when we are awake; its independence
of disturbances which, during the state of sleep, seem to compel notice; its many peculiarities
repugnant to our waking thought; the incongruence between its images and the feelings they engender;
then the dream's evanescence, the way in which, on awakening, our thoughts thrust it aside as
something bizarre, and our reminiscences mutilating or rejecting it—all these and many other
problems have for many hundred years demanded answers which up till now could never have been
satisfactory. Before all there is the question as to the meaning of the dream, a question which is in
itself double-sided. There is, firstly, the psychical significance of the dream, its position with regard to
the psychical processes, as to a possible biological function; secondly, has the dream a meaning—can
sense be made of each single dream as of other mental syntheses?
Three tendencies can be observed in the estimation of dreams. Many philosophers have given currency
to one of these tendencies, one which at the same time preserves something of the dream's former
over-valuation. The foundation of dream life is for them a peculiar state of psychical activity, which
they even celebrate as elevation to some higher state. Schubert, for instance, claims: "The dream is the
liberation of the spirit from the pressure of external nature, a detachment of the soul from the fetters of
matter." Not all go so far as this, but many maintain that dreams have their origin in real spiritual
excitations, and are the outward manifestations of spiritual powers whose free movements have been
hampered during the day ("Dream Phantasies," Scherner, Volkelt). A large number of observers
acknowledge that dream life is capable of extraordinary achievements—at any rate, in certain fields
("Memory").
In striking contradiction with this the majority of medical writers hardly admit that the dream is a
psychical phenomenon at all. According to them dreams are provoked and initiated exclusively by
stimuli proceeding from the senses or the body, which either reach the sleeper from without or are
accidental disturbances of his internal organs. The dream has no greater claim to meaning and
importance than the sound called forth by the ten fingers of a person quite unacquainted with music
running his fingers over the keys of an instrument. The dream is to be regarded, says Binz, "as a
physical process always useless, frequently morbid." All the peculiarities of dream life are explicable
as the incoherent effort, due to some physiological stimulus, of certain organs, or of the cortical
elements of a brain otherwise asleep.
But slightly affected by scientific opinion and untroubled as to the origin of dreams, the popular view
holds firmly to the belief that dreams really have got a meaning, in some way they do foretell the
future, whilst the meaning can be unravelled in some way or other from its oft bizarre and enigmatical
content. The reading of dreams consists in replacing the events of the dream, so far as remembered, by
other events. This is done either scene by scene, according to some rigid key, or the dream as a whole
is replaced by something else of which it was a symbol. Serious-minded persons laugh at these efforts
—"Dreams are but sea-foam!"
One day I discovered to my amazement that the popular view grounded in superstition, and not the
medical one, comes nearer to the truth about dreams. I arrived at new conclusions about dreams by the
use of a new method of psychological investigation, one which had rendered me good service in the
investigation of phobias, obsessions, illusions, and the like, and which, under the name "psycho-
analysis," had found acceptance by a whole school of investigators. The manifold analogies of dream
life with the most diverse conditions of psychical disease in the waking state have been rightly insisted
upon by a number of medical observers. It seemed, therefore, a priori, hopeful to apply to the
interpretation of dreams methods of investigation which had been tested in psychopathological
processes. Obsessions and those peculiar sensations of haunting dread remain as strange to normal
consciousness as do dreams to our waking consciousness; their origin is as unknown to consciousness
as is that of dreams. It was practical ends that impelled us, in these diseases, to fathom their origin and
formation. Experience had shown us that a cure and a consequent mastery of the obsessing ideas did
result when once those thoughts, the connecting links between the morbid ideas and the rest of the
psychical content, were revealed which were heretofore veiled from consciousness. The procedure I
employed for the interpretation of dreams thus arose from psychotherapy.
This procedure is readily described, although its practice demands instruction and experience. Suppose
the patient is suffering from intense morbid dread. He is requested to direct his attention to the idea in
question, without, however, as he has so frequently done, meditating upon it. Every impression about
it, without any exception, which occurs to him should be imparted to the doctor. The statement which
will be perhaps then made, that he cannot concentrate his attention upon anything at all, is to be
countered by assuring him most positively that such a blank state of mind is utterly impossible. As a
matter of fact, a great number of impressions will soon occur, with which others will associate
themselves. These will be invariably accompanied by the expression of the observer's opinion that they
have no meaning or are unimportant. It will be at once noticed that it is this self-criticism which
prevented the patient from imparting the ideas, which had indeed already excluded them from
consciousness. If the patient can be induced to abandon this self-criticism and to pursue the trains of
thought which are yielded by concentrating the attention, most significant matter will be obtained,
matter which will be presently seen to be clearly linked to the morbid idea in question. Its connection
with other ideas will be manifest, and later on will permit the replacement of the morbid idea by a
fresh one, which is perfectly adapted to psychical continuity.
This is not the place to examine thoroughly the hypothesis upon which this experiment rests, or the
deductions which follow from its invariable success. It must suffice to state that we obtain matter
enough for the resolution of every morbid idea if we especially direct our attention to
the unbidden associations which disturb our thoughts—those which are otherwise put aside by the
critic as worthless refuse. If the procedure is exercised on oneself, the best plan of helping the
experiment is to write down at once all one's first indistinct fancies.
I will now point out where this method leads when I apply it to the examination of dreams. Any dream
could be made use of in this way. From certain motives I, however, choose a dream of my own, which
appears confused and meaningless to my memory, and one which has the advantage of brevity.
Probably my dream of last night satisfies the requirements. Its content, fixed immediately after
awakening, runs as follows:
"Company; at table or table d'hôte.... Spinach is served. Mrs. E.L., sitting next to me, gives me her
undivided attention, and places her hand familiarly upon my knee. In defence I remove her hand. Then
she says: 'But you have always had such beautiful eyes.'.... I then distinctly see something like two eyes
as a sketch or as the contour of a spectacle lens...."
This is the whole dream, or, at all events, all that I can remember. It appears to me not only obscure
and meaningless, but more especially odd. Mrs. E.L. is a person with whom I am scarcely on visiting
terms, nor to my knowledge have I ever desired any more cordial relationship. I have not seen her for a
long time, and do not think there was any mention of her recently. No emotion whatever accompanied
the dream process.
Reflecting upon this dream does not make it a bit clearer to my mind. I will now, however, present the
ideas, without premeditation and without criticism, which introspection yielded. I soon notice that it is
an advantage to break up the dream into its elements, and to search out the ideas which link themselves
to each fragment.
Company; at table or table d'hôte. The recollection of the slight event with which the evening of
yesterday ended is at once called up. I left a small party in the company of a friend, who offered to
drive me home in his cab. "I prefer a taxi," he said; "that gives one such a pleasant occupation; there is
always something to look at." When we were in the cab, and the cab-driver turned the disc so that the
first sixty hellers were visible, I continued the jest. "We have hardly got in and we already owe sixty
hellers. The taxi always reminds me of the table d'hôte. It makes me avaricious and selfish by
continuously reminding me of my debt. It seems to me to mount up too quickly, and I am always
afraid that I shall be at a disadvantage, just as I cannot resist at table d'hôte the comical fear that I am
getting too little, that I must look after myself." In far-fetched connection with this I quote:
"To earth, this weary earth, ye bring us,

To guilt ye let us heedless go."
Another idea about the table d'hôte. A few weeks ago I was very cross with my dear wife at the dinner-
table at a Tyrolese health resort, because she was not sufficiently reserved with some neighbors with
whom I wished to have absolutely nothing to do. I begged her to occupy herself rather with me than
with the strangers. That is just as if I had been at a disadvantage at the table d'hôte. The contrast
between the behavior of my wife at the table and that of Mrs. E.L. in the dream now strikes
me: "Addresses herself entirely to me."
Further, I now notice that the dream is the reproduction of a little scene which transpired between my
wife and myself when I was secretly courting her. The caressing under cover of the tablecloth was an
answer to a wooer's passionate letter. In the dream, however, my wife is replaced by the unfamiliar
E.L.
Mrs. E.L. is the daughter of a man to whom I owed money! I cannot help noticing that here there is
revealed an unsuspected connection between the dream content and my thoughts. If the chain of
associations be followed up which proceeds from one element of the dream one is soon led back to
another of its elements. The thoughts evoked by the dream stir up associations which were not
noticeable in the dream itself.
Is it not customary, when some one expects others to look after his interests without any advantage to
themselves, to ask the innocent question satirically: "Do you think this will be done for the sake of
your beautiful eyes?" Hence Mrs. E.L.'s speech in the dream. "You have always had such beautiful
eyes," means nothing but "people always do everything to you for love of you; you have
had everything for nothing." The contrary is, of course, the truth; I have always paid dearly for
whatever kindness others have shown me. Still, the fact that I had a ride for nothing yesterday when
my friend drove me home in his cab must have made an impression upon me.
In any case, the friend whose guests we were yesterday has often made me his debtor. Recently I
allowed an opportunity of requiting him to go by. He has had only one present from me, an antique
shawl, upon which eyes are painted all round, a so-called Occhiale, as a charm against the Malocchio.
Moreover, he is an eye specialist. That same evening I had asked him after a patient whom I had sent
to him for glasses.
As I remarked, nearly all parts of the dream have been brought into this new connection. I still might
ask why in the dream it was spinach that was served up. Because spinach called up a little scene which
recently occurred at our table. A child, whose beautiful eyes are really deserving of praise, refused to
eat spinach. As a child I was just the same; for a long time I loathed spinach, until in later life my
tastes altered, and it became one of my favorite dishes. The mention of this dish brings my own
childhood and that of my child's near together. "You should be glad that you have some spinach," his
mother had said to the little gourmet. "Some children would be very glad to get spinach." Thus I am
reminded of the parents' duties towards their children. Goethe's words—
"To earth, this weary earth, ye bring us,

To guilt ye let us heedless go"—
take on another meaning in this connection.
Here I will stop in order that I may recapitulate the results of the analysis of the dream. By following
the associations which were linked to the single elements of the dream torn from their context, I have
been led to a series of thoughts and reminiscences where I am bound to recognize interesting
expressions of my psychical life. The matter yielded by an analysis of the dream stands in intimate
relationship with the dream content, but this relationship is so special that I should never have been
able to have inferred the new discoveries directly from the dream itself. The dream was passionless,
disconnected, and unintelligible. During the time that I am unfolding the thoughts at the back of the
dream I feel intense and well-grounded emotions. The thoughts themselves fit beautifully together into
chains logically bound together with certain central ideas which ever repeat themselves. Such ideas not
represented in the dream itself are in this instance the antitheses selfish, unselfish, to be indebted, to
work for nothing. I could draw closer the threads of the web which analysis has disclosed, and would
then be able to show how they all run together into a single knot; I am debarred from making this work
public by considerations of a private, not of a scientific, nature. After having cleared up many things
which I do not willingly acknowledge as mine, I should have much to reveal which had better remain
my secret. Why, then, do not I choose another dream whose analysis would be more suitable for
publication, so that I could awaken a fairer conviction of the sense and cohesion of the results
disclosed by analysis? The answer is, because every dream which I investigate leads to the same
difficulties and places me under the same need of discretion; nor should I forgo this difficulty any the
more were I to analyze the dream of some one else. That could only be done when opportunity allowed
all concealment to be dropped without injury to those who trusted me.
The conclusion which is now forced upon me is that the dream is a sort of substitution for those
emotional and intellectual trains of thought which I attained after complete analysis. I do not yet know
the process by which the dream arose from those thoughts, but I perceive that it is wrong to regard the
dream as psychically unimportant, a purely physical process which has arisen from the activity of
isolated cortical elements awakened out of sleep.
I must further remark that the dream is far shorter than the thoughts which I hold it replaces; whilst
analysis discovered that the dream was provoked by an unimportant occurrence the evening before the
dream.
Naturally, I would not draw such far-reaching conclusions if only one analysis were known to me.
Experience has shown me that when the associations of any dream are honestly followed such a chain
of thought is revealed, the constituent parts of the dream reappear correctly and sensibly linked
together; the slight suspicion that this concatenation was merely an accident of a single first
observation must, therefore, be absolutely relinquished. I regard it, therefore, as my right to establish
this new view by a proper nomenclature. I contrast the dream which my memory evokes with the
dream and other added matter revealed by analysis: the former I call the dream's manifest content; the
latter, without at first further subdivision, its latent content. I arrive at two new problems hitherto
unformulated: (1) What is the psychical process which has transformed the latent content of the dream
into its manifest content? (2) What is the motive or the motives which have made such transformation
exigent? The process by which the change from latent to manifest content is executed I name
the dream-work. In contrast with this is the work of analysis, which produces the reverse
transformation. The other problems of the dream—the inquiry as to its stimuli, as to the source of its
materials, as to its possible purpose, the function of dreaming, the forgetting of dreams—these I will
discuss in connection with the latent dream-content.
I shall take every care to avoid a confusion between the manifest and the latent content, for I ascribe all
the contradictory as well as the incorrect accounts of dream-life to the ignorance of this latent content,
now first laid bare through analysis.
The conversion of the latent dream thoughts into those manifest deserves our close study as the first
known example of the transformation of psychical stuff from one mode of expression into another.
From a mode of expression which, moreover, is readily intelligible into another which we can only
penetrate by effort and with guidance, although this new mode must be equally reckoned as an effort
of our own psychical activity. From the standpoint of the relationship of latent to manifest dream-
content, dreams can be divided into three classes. We can, in the first place, distinguish those dreams
which have a meaning and are, at the same time, intelligible, which allow us to penetrate into our
psychical life without further ado. Such dreams are numerous; they are usually short, and, as a general
rule, do not seem very noticeable, because everything remarkable or exciting surprise is absent. Their
occurrence is, moreover, a strong argument against the doctrine which derives the dream from the
isolated activity of certain cortical elements. All signs of a lowered or subdivided psychical activity are
wanting. Yet we never raise any objection to characterizing them as dreams, nor do we confound them
with the products of our waking life.
A second group is formed by those dreams which are indeed self-coherent and have a distinct
meaning, but appear strange because we are unable to reconcile their meaning with our mental life.
That is the case when we dream, for instance, that some dear relative has died of plague when we
know of no ground for expecting, apprehending, or assuming anything of the sort; we can only ask
ourself wonderingly: "What brought that into my head?" To the third group those dreams belong
which are void of both meaning and intelligibility; they are incoherent, complicated, and meaningless.
The overwhelming number of our dreams partake of this character, and this has given rise to the
contemptuous attitude towards dreams and the medical theory of their limited psychical activity. It is
especially in the longer and more complicated dream-plots that signs of incoherence are seldom
missing.
The contrast between manifest and latent dream-content is clearly only of value for the dreams of the
second and more especially for those of the third class. Here are problems which are only solved when
the manifest dream is replaced by its latent content; it was an example of this kind, a complicated and
unintelligible dream, that we subjected to analysis. Against our expectation we, however, struck upon
reasons which prevented a complete cognizance of the latent dream thought. On the repetition of this
same experience we were forced to the supposition that there is an intimate bond, with laws of its own,
between the unintelligible and complicated nature of the dream and the difficulties attending
communication of the thoughts connected with the dream. Before investigating the nature of this bond,
it will be advantageous to turn our attention to the more readily intelligible dreams of the first class
where, the manifest and latent content being identical, the dream work seems to be omitted.
The investigation of these dreams is also advisable from another standpoint. The dreams
of children are of this nature; they have a meaning, and are not bizarre. This, by the way, is a further
objection to reducing dreams to a dissociation of cerebral activity in sleep, for why should such a
lowering of psychical functions belong to the nature of sleep in adults, but not in children? We are,
however, fully justified in expecting that the explanation of psychical processes in children, essentially
simplified as they may be, should serve as an indispensable preparation towards the psychology of the
adult.
I shall therefore cite some examples of dreams which I have gathered from children. A girl of nineteen
months was made to go without food for a day because she had been sick in the morning, and,
according to nurse, had made herself ill through eating strawberries. During the night, after her day of
fasting, she was heard calling out her name during sleep, and adding: "Tawberry, eggs, pap." She is
dreaming that she is eating, and selects out of her menu exactly what she supposes she will not get
much of just now.
The same kind of dream about a forbidden dish was that of a little boy of twenty-two months. The day
before he was told to offer his uncle a present of a small basket of cherries, of which the child was, of
course, only allowed one to taste. He woke up with the joyful news: "Hermann eaten up all the
cherries."
A girl of three and a half years had made during the day a sea trip which was too short for her, and she
cried when she had to get out of the boat. The next morning her story was that during the night she had
been on the sea, thus continuing the interrupted trip.
A boy of five and a half years was not at all pleased with his party during a walk in the Dachstein
region. Whenever a new peak came into sight he asked if that were the Dachstein, and, finally, refused
to accompany the party to the waterfall. His behavior was ascribed to fatigue; but a better explanation
was forthcoming when the next morning he told his dream: he had ascended the Dachstein. Obviously
he expected the ascent of the Dachstein to be the object of the excursion, and was vexed by not getting
a glimpse of the mountain. The dream gave him what the day had withheld. The dream of a girl of six
was similar; her father had cut short the walk before reaching the promised objective on account of the
lateness of the hour. On the way back she noticed a signpost giving the name of another place for
excursions; her father promised to take her there also some other day. She greeted her father next day
with the news that she had dreamt that her father had been with her to both places.
What is common in all these dreams is obvious. They completely satisfy wishes excited during the day
which remain unrealized. They are simply and undisguisedly realizations of wishes.
The following child-dream, not quite understandable at first sight, is nothing else than a wish realized.
On account of poliomyelitis a girl, not quite four years of age, was brought from the country into town,
and remained over night with a childless aunt in a big—for her, naturally, huge—bed. The next
morning she stated that she had dreamt that the bed was much too small for her, so that she could find
no place in it. To explain this dream as a wish is easy when we remember that to be "big" is a
frequently expressed wish of all children. The bigness of the bed reminded Miss Little-Would-be-Big
only too forcibly of her smallness. This nasty situation became righted in her dream, and she grew so
big that the bed now became too small for her.
Even when children's dreams are complicated and polished, their comprehension as a realization of
desire is fairly evident. A boy of eight dreamt that he was being driven with Achilles in a war-chariot,
guided by Diomedes. The day before he was assiduously reading about great heroes. It is easy to show
that he took these heroes as his models, and regretted that he was not living in those days.
From this short collection a further characteristic of the dreams of children is manifest—their
connection with the life of the day. The desires which are realized in these dreams are left over from
the day or, as a rule, the day previous, and the feeling has become intently emphasized and fixed
during the day thoughts. Accidental and indifferent matters, or what must appear so to the child, find
no acceptance in the contents of the dream.
Innumerable instances of such dreams of the infantile type can be found among adults also, but, as
mentioned, these are mostly exactly like the manifest content. Thus, a random selection of persons will
generally respond to thirst at night-time with a dream about drinking, thus striving to get rid of the
sensation and to let sleep continue. Many persons frequently have these comforting dreams before
waking, just when they are called. They then dream that they are already up, that they are washing, or
already in school, at the office, etc., where they ought to be at a given time. The night before an
intended journey one not infrequently dreams that one has already arrived at the destination; before
going to a play or to a party the dream not infrequently anticipates, in impatience, as it were, the
expected pleasure. At other times the dream expresses the realization of the desire somewhat
indirectly; some connection, some sequel must be known—the first step towards recognizing the
desire. Thus, when a husband related to me the dream of his young wife, that her monthly period had
begun, I had to bethink myself that the young wife would have expected a pregnancy if the period had
been absent. The dream is then a sign of pregnancy. Its meaning is that it shows the wish realized that
pregnancy should not occur just yet. Under unusual and extreme circumstances, these dreams of the
infantile type become very frequent. The leader of a polar expedition tells us, for instance, that during
the wintering amid the ice the crew, with their monotonous diet and slight rations, dreamt regularly,
like children, of fine meals, of mountains of tobacco, and of home.
It is not uncommon that out of some long, complicated and intricate dream one specially lucid part
stands out containing unmistakably the realization of a desire, but bound up with much unintelligible
matter. On more frequently analyzing the seemingly more transparent dreams of adults, it is
astonishing to discover that these are rarely as simple as the dreams of children, and that they cover
another meaning beyond that of the realization of a wish.
It would certainly be a simple and convenient solution of the riddle if the work of analysis made it at
all possible for us to trace the meaningless and intricate dreams of adults back to the infantile type, to
the realization of some intensely experienced desire of the day. But there is no warrant for such an
expectation. Their dreams are generally full of the most indifferent and bizarre matter, and no trace of
the realization of the wish is to be found in their content.
Before leaving these infantile dreams, which are obviously unrealized desires, we must not fail to
mention another chief characteristic of dreams, one that has been long noticed, and one which stands
out most clearly in this class. I can replace any of these dreams by a phrase expressing a desire. If the
sea trip had only lasted longer; if I were only washed and dressed; if I had only been allowed to keep
the cherries instead of giving them to my uncle. But the dream gives something more than the choice,
for here the desire is already realized; its realization is real and actual. The dream presentations consist
chiefly, if not wholly, of scenes and mainly of visual sense images. Hence a kind of transformation is
not entirely absent in this class of dreams, and this may be fairly designated as the dream work. An
idea merely existing in the region of possibility is replaced by a vision of its accomplishment.
II
THE DREAM MECHANISM
We are compelled to assume that such transformation of scene has also taken place in intricate dreams,
though we do not know whether it has encountered any possible desire. The dream instanced at the
commencement, which we analyzed somewhat thoroughly, did give us occasion in two places to
suspect something of the kind. Analysis brought out that my wife was occupied with others at table,
and that I did not like it; in the dream itself exactly the oppositeoccurs, for the person who replaces my
wife gives me her undivided attention. But can one wish for anything pleasanter after a disagreeable
incident than that the exact contrary should have occurred, just as the dream has it? The stinging
thought in the analysis, that I have never had anything for nothing, is similarly connected with the
woman's remark in the dream: "You have always had such beautiful eyes." Some portion of the
opposition between the latent and manifest content of the dream must be therefore derived from the
realization of a wish.
Another manifestation of the dream work which all incoherent dreams have in common is still more
noticeable. Choose any instance, and compare the number of separate elements in it, or the extent of
the dream, if written down, with the dream thoughts yielded by analysis, and of which but a trace can
be refound in the dream itself. There can be no doubt that the dream working has resulted in an
extraordinary compression or condensation. It is not at first easy to form an opinion as to the extent of
the condensation; the more deeply you go into the analysis, the more deeply you are impressed by it.
There will be found no factor in the dream whence the chains of associations do not lead in two or
more directions, no scene which has not been pieced together out of two or more impressions and
events. For instance, I once dreamt about a kind of swimming-bath where the bathers suddenly
separated in all directions; at one place on the edge a person stood bending towards one of the bathers
as if to drag him out. The scene was a composite one, made up out of an event that occurred at the time
of puberty, and of two pictures, one of which I had seen just shortly before the dream. The two pictures
were The Surprise in the Bath, from Schwind's Cycle of the Melusine (note the bathers suddenly
separating), and The Flood, by an Italian master. The little incident was that I once witnessed a lady,
who had tarried in the swimming-bath until the men's hour, being helped out of the water by the
swimming-master. The scene in the dream which was selected for analysis led to a whole group of
reminiscences, each one of which had contributed to the dream content. First of all came the little
episode from the time of my courting, of which I have already spoken; the pressure of a hand under the
table gave rise in the dream to the "under the table," which I had subsequently to find a place for in my
recollection. There was, of course, at the time not a word about "undivided attention." Analysis taught
me that this factor is the realization of a desire through its contradictory and related to the behavior of
my wife at the table d'hôte. An exactly similar and much more important episode of our courtship, one
which separated us for an entire day, lies hidden behind this recent recollection. The intimacy, the
hand resting upon the knee, refers to a quite different connection and to quite other persons. This
element in the dream becomes again the starting-point of two distinct series of reminiscences, and so
on.
The stuff of the dream thoughts which has been accumulated for the formation of the dream scene
must be naturally fit for this application. There must be one or more common factors. The dream work
proceeds like Francis Galton with his family photographs. The different elements are put one on top of
the other; what is common to the composite picture stands out clearly, the opposing details cancel each
other. This process of reproduction partly explains the wavering statements, of a peculiar vagueness, in
so many elements of the dream. For the interpretation of dreams this rule holds good: When analysis
discloses uncertainty, as to either—or read and, taking each section of the apparent alternatives as a
separate outlet for a series of impressions.
When there is nothing in common between the dream thoughts, the dream work takes the trouble to
create a something, in order to make a common presentation feasible in the dream. The simplest way
to approximate two dream thoughts, which have as yet nothing in common, consists in making such a
change in the actual expression of one idea as will meet a slight responsive recasting in the form of the
other idea. The process is analogous to that of rhyme, when consonance supplies the desired common
factor. A good deal of the dream work consists in the creation of those frequently very witty, but often
exaggerated, digressions. These vary from the common presentation in the dreamcontent to dream
thoughts which are as varied as are the causes in form and essence which give rise to them. In the
analysis of our example of a dream, I find a like case of the transformation of a thought in order that it
might agree with another essentially foreign one. In following out the analysis I struck upon the
thought: I should like to have something for nothing. But this formula is not serviceable to the dream.
Hence it is replaced by another one: "I should like to enjoy something free of cost." 1 The word "kost"
(taste), with its double meaning, is appropriate to a table d'hôte; it, moreover, is in place through the
special sense in the dream. At home if there is a dish which the children decline, their mother first tries
gentle persuasion, with a "Just taste it." That the dream work should unhesitatingly use the double
meaning of the word is certainly remarkable; ample experience has shown, however, that the
occurrence is quite usual.
Through condensation of the dream certain constituent parts of its content are explicable which are
peculiar to the dream life alone, and which are not found in the waking state. Such are the composite
and mixed persons, the extraordinary mixed figures, creations comparable with the fantastic animal
compositions of Orientals; a moment's thought and these are reduced to unity, whilst the fancies of the
dream are ever formed anew in an inexhaustible profusion. Every one knows such images in his own
dreams; manifold are their origins. I can build up a person by borrowing one feature from one person
and one from another, or by giving to the form of one the name of another in my dream. I can also
visualize one person, but place him in a position which has occurred to another. There is a meaning in
all these cases when different persons are amalgamated into one substitute. Such cases denote an
"and," a "just like," a comparison of the original person from a certain point of view, a comparison
which can be also realized in the dream itself. As a rule, however, the identity of the blended persons is
only discoverable by analysis, and is only indicated in the dream content by the formation of the
"combined" person.
The same diversity in their ways of formation and the same rules for its solution hold good also for the
innumerable medley of dream contents, examples of which I need scarcely adduce. Their strangeness
quite disappears when we resolve not to place them on a level with the objects of perception as known
to us when awake, but to remember that they represent the art of dream condensation by an exclusion
of unnecessary detail. Prominence is given to the common character of the combination. Analysis must
also generally supply the common features. The dream says simply: All these things have an "x" in
common. The decomposition of these mixed images by analysis is often the quickest way to an
interpretation of the dream. Thus I once dreamt that I was sitting with one of my former university
tutors on a bench, which was undergoing a rapid continuous movement amidst other benches. This was
a combination of lecture-room and moving staircase. I will not pursue the further result of the thought.
Another time I was sitting in a carriage, and on my lap an object in shape like a top-hat, which,
however, was made of transparent glass. The scene at once brought to my mind the proverb: "He who
keeps his hat in his hand will travel safely through the land." By a slight turn the glass hat reminded
me of Auer's light, and I knew that I was about to invent something which was to make me as rich and
independent as his invention had made my countryman, Dr. Auer, of Welsbach; then I should be able
to travel instead of remaining in Vienna. In the dream I was traveling with my invention, with the, it is
true, rather awkward glass top-hat. The dream work is peculiarly adept at representing two
contradictory conceptions by means of the same mixed image. Thus, for instance, a woman dreamt of
herself carrying a tall flower-stalk, as in the picture of the Annunciation (Chastity-Mary is her own
name), but the stalk was bedecked with thick white blossoms resembling camellias (contrast with
chastity: La dame aux Camelias).
A great deal of what we have called "dream condensation" can be thus formulated. Each one of the
elements of the dream content is overdetermined by the matter of the dream thoughts; it is not derived
from one element of these thoughts, but from a whole series. These are not necessarily interconnected
in any way, but may belong to the most diverse spheres of thought. The dream element truly represents
all this disparate matter in the dream content. Analysis, moreover, discloses another side of the
relationship between dream content and dream thoughts. Just as one element of the dream leads to
associations with several dream thoughts, so, as a rule, the one dream thought represents more than
one dream element. The threads of the association do not simply converge from the dream thoughts to
the dream content, but on the way they overlap and interweave in every way.
Next to the transformation of one thought in the scene (its "dramatization"), condensation is the most
important and most characteristic feature of the dream work. We have as yet no clue as to the motive
calling for such compression of the content.
In the complicated and intricate dreams with which we are now concerned, condensation and
dramatization do not wholly account for the difference between dream contents and dream thoughts.
There is evidence of a third factor, which deserves careful consideration.
When I have arrived at an understanding of the dream thoughts by my analysis I notice, above all, that
the matter of the manifest is very different from that of the latent dream content. That is, I admit, only
an apparent difference which vanishes on closer investigation, for in the end I find the whole dream
content carried out in the dream thoughts, nearly all the dream thoughts again represented in the dream
content. Nevertheless, there does remain a certain amount of difference.
The essential content which stood out clearly and broadly in the dream must, after analysis, rest
satisfied with a very subordinate rôle among the dream thoughts. These very dream thoughts which,
going by my feelings, have a claim to the greatest importance are either not present at all in the dream
content, or are represented by some remote allusion in some obscure region of the dream. I can thus
describe these phenomena: During the dream work the psychical intensity of those thoughts and
conceptions to which it properly pertains flows to others which, in my judgment, have no claim to such
emphasis. There is no other process which contributes so much to concealment of the dream's meaning
and to make the connection between the dream content and dream ideas irrecognizable. During this
process, which I will call the dream displacement, I notice also the psychical intensity, significance, or
emotional nature of the thoughts become transposed in sensory vividness. What was clearest in the
dream seems to me, without further consideration, the most important; but often in some obscure
element of the dream I can recognize the most direct offspring of the principal dream thought.
I could only designate this dream displacement as the transvaluation of psychical values. The
phenomena will not have been considered in all its bearings unless I add that this displacement
or transvaluation is shared by different dreams in extremely varying degrees. There are dreams which
take place almost without any displacement. These have the same time, meaning, and intelligibility as
we found in the dreams which recorded a desire. In other dreams not a bit of the dream idea has
retained its own psychical value, or everything essential in these dream ideas has been replaced by
unessentials, whilst every kind of transition between these conditions can be found. The more obscure
and intricate a dream is, the greater is the part to be ascribed to the impetus of displacement in its
formation.
The example that we chose for analysis shows, at least, this much of displacement—that its content has
a different center of interest from that of the dream ideas. In the forefront of the dream content the
main scene appears as if a woman wished to make advances to me; in the dream idea the chief interest
rests on the desire to enjoy disinterested love which shall "cost nothing"; this idea lies at the back of
the talk about the beautiful eyes and the far-fetched allusion to "spinach."
If we abolish the dream displacement, we attain through analysis quite certain conclusions regarding
two problems of the dream which are most disputed—as to what provokes a dream at all, and as to the
connection of the dream with our waking life. There are dreams which at once expose their links with
the events of the day; in others no trace of such a connection can be found. By the aid of analysis it can
be shown that every dream, without any exception, is linked up with our impression of the day, or
perhaps it would be more correct to say of the day previous to the dream. The impressions which have
incited the dream may be so important that we are not surprised at our being occupied with them whilst
awake; in this case we are right in saying that the dream carries on the chief interest of our waking life.
More usually, however, when the dream contains anything relating to the impressions of the day, it is
so trivial, unimportant, and so deserving of oblivion, that we can only recall it with an effort. The
dream content appears, then, even when coherent and intelligible, to be concerned with those
indifferent trifles of thought undeserving of our waking interest. The depreciation of dreams is largely
due to the predominance of the indifferent and the worthless in their content.
Analysis destroys the appearance upon which this derogatory judgment is based. When the dream
content discloses nothing but some indifferent impression as instigating the dream, analysis ever
indicates some significant event, which has been replaced by something indifferent with which it has
entered into abundant associations. Where the dream is concerned with uninteresting and unimportant
conceptions, analysis reveals the numerous associative paths which connect the trivial with the
momentous in the psychical estimation of the individual. It is only the action of displacement if what is
indifferent obtains recognition in the dream content instead of those impressions which are really the
stimulus, or instead of the things of real interest. In answering the question as to what provokes the
dream, as to the connection of the dream, in the daily troubles, we must say, in terms of the insight
given us by replacing the manifest latent dream content: The dream does never trouble itself about
things which are not deserving of our concern during the day, and trivialities which do not trouble us
during the day have no power to pursue us whilst asleep.
What provoked the dream in the example which we have analyzed? The really unimportant event, that
a friend invited me to a free ride in his cab. The table d'hôte scene in the dream contains an allusion to
this indifferent motive, for in conversation I had brought the taxi parallel with the table d'hôte. But I
can indicate the important event which has as its substitute the trivial one. A few days before I had
disbursed a large sum of money for a member of my family who is very dear to me. Small wonder,
says the dream thought, if this person is grateful to me for this—this love is not cost-free. But love that
shall cost nothing is one of the prime thoughts of the dream. The fact that shortly before this I had had
several drives with the relative in question puts the one drive with my friend in a position to recall the
connection with the other person. The indifferent impression which, by such ramifications, provokes
the dream is subservient to another condition which is not true of the real source of the dream—the
impression must be a recent one, everything arising from the day of the dream.
I cannot leave the question of dream displacement without the consideration of a remarkable process in
the formation of dreams in which condensation and displacement work together towards one end. In
condensation we have already considered the case where two conceptions in the dream having
something in common, some point of contact, are replaced in the dream content by a mixed image,
where the distinct germ corresponds to what is common, and the indistinct secondary modifications to
what is distinctive. If displacement is added to condensation, there is no formation of a mixed image,
but a common mean which bears the same relationship to the individual elements as does the resultant
in the parallelogram of forces to its components. In one of my dreams, for instance, there is talk of an
injection with propyl. On first analysis I discovered an indifferent but true incident where amyl played
a part as the excitant of the dream. I cannot yet vindicate the exchange of amyl for propyl. To the
round of ideas of the same dream, however, there belongs the recollection of my first visit to Munich,
when the Propylœa struck me. The attendant circumstances of the analysis render it admissible that the
influence of this second group of conceptions caused the displacement of amyl to propyl. Propyl is, so
to say, the mean idea between amyl and propylœa; it got into the dream as a kind of compromise by
simultaneous condensation and displacement.
The need of discovering some motive for this bewildering work of the dream is even more called for in
the case of displacement than in condensation.
Although the work of displacement must be held mainly responsible if the dream thoughts are not
refound or recognized in the dream content (unless the motive of the changes be guessed), it is another
and milder kind of transformation which will be considered with the dream thoughts which leads to the
discovery of a new but readily understood act of the dream work. The first dream thoughts which are
unravelled by analysis frequently strike one by their unusual wording. They do not appear to be
expressed in the sober form which our thinking prefers; rather are they expressed symbolically by
allegories and metaphors like the figurative language of the poets. It is not difficult to find the motives
for this degree of constraint in the expression of dream ideas. The dream content consists chiefly of
visual scenes; hence the dream ideas must, in the first place, be prepared to make use of these forms of
presentation. Conceive that a political leader's or a barrister's address had to be transposed into
pantomime, and it will be easy to understand the transformations to which the dream work is
constrained by regard for this dramatization of the dream content.
Around the psychical stuff of dream thoughts there are ever found reminiscences of impressions, not
infrequently of early childhood—scenes which, as a rule, have been visually grasped. Whenever
possible, this portion of the dream ideas exercises a definite influence upon the modelling of the dream
content; it works like a center of crystallization, by attracting and rearranging the stuff of the dream
thoughts. The scene of the dream is not infrequently nothing but a modified repetition, complicated by
interpolations of events that have left such an impression; the dream but very seldom reproduces
accurate and unmixed reproductions of real scenes.
The dream content does not, however, consist exclusively of scenes, but it also includes scattered
fragments of visual images, conversations, and even bits of unchanged thoughts. It will be perhaps to
the point if we instance in the briefest way the means of dramatization which are at the disposal of the
dream work for the repetition of the dream thoughts in the peculiar language of the dream.
The dream thoughts which we learn from the analysis exhibit themselves as a psychical complex of the
most complicated superstructure. Their parts stand in the most diverse relationship to each other; they
form backgrounds and foregrounds, stipulations, digressions, illustrations, demonstrations, and
protestations. It may be said to be almost the rule that one train of thought is followed by its
contradictory. No feature known to our reason whilst awake is absent. If a dream is to grow out of all
this, the psychical matter is submitted to a pressure which condenses it extremely, to an inner shrinking
and displacement, creating at the same time fresh surfaces, to a selective interweaving among the
constituents best adapted for the construction of these scenes. Having regard to the origin of this stuff,
the term regression can be fairly applied to this process. The logical chains which hitherto held the
psychical stuff together become lost in this transformation to the dream content. The dream work takes
on, as it were, only the essential content of the dream thoughts for elaboration. It is left to analysis to
restore the connection which the dream work has destroyed.
The dream's means of expression must therefore be regarded as meager in comparison with those of
our imagination, though the dream does not renounce all claims to the restitution of logical relation to
the dream thoughts. It rather succeeds with tolerable frequency in replacing these by formal characters
of its own.
By reason of the undoubted connection existing between all the parts of dream thoughts, the dream is
able to embody this matter into a single scene. It upholds a logical connection as approximation in
time and space, just as the painter, who groups all the poets for his picture of Parnassus who, though
they have never been all together on a mountain peak, yet form ideally a community. The dream
continues this method of presentation in individual dreams, and often when it displays two
elements close together in the dream content it warrants some special inner connection between what
they represent in the dream thoughts. It should be, moreover, observed that all the dreams of one night
prove on analysis to originate from the same sphere of thought.
The causal connection between two ideas is either left without presentation, or replaced by two
different long portions of dreams one after the other. This presentation is frequently a reversed one, the
beginning of the dream being the deduction, and its end the hypothesis. The direct transformation of
one thing into another in the dream seems to serve the relationship of cause and effect.
The dream never utters the alternative "either-or," but accepts both as having equal rights in the same
connection. When "either-or" is used in the reproduction of dreams, it is, as I have already mentioned,
to be replaced by "and."
Conceptions which stand in opposition to one another are preferably expressed in dreams by the same
element.2 There seems no "not" in dreams. Opposition between two ideas, the relation of conversion, is
represented in dreams in a very remarkable way. It is expressed by the reversal of another part of the
dream content just as if by way of appendix. We shall later on deal with another form of expressing
disagreement. The common dream sensation of movement checked serves the purpose of representing
disagreement of impulses—a conflict of the will.
Only one of the logical relationships—that of similarity, identity, agreement—is found highly
developed in the mechanism of dream formation. Dream work makes use of these cases as a starting-
point for condensation, drawing together everything which shows such agreement to a fresh unity.
These short, crude observations naturally do not suffice as an estimate of the abundance of the dream's
formal means of presenting the logical relationships of the dream thoughts. In this respect, individual
dreams are worked up more nicely or more carelessly, our text will have been followed more or less
closely, auxiliaries of the dream work will have been taken more or less into consideration. In the latter
case they appear obscure, intricate, incoherent. When the dream appears openly absurd, when it
contains an obvious paradox in its content, it is so of purpose. Through its apparent disregard of all
logical claims, it expresses a part of the intellectual content of the dream ideas. Absurdity in the dream
denotes disagreement, scorn, disdain in the dream thoughts. As this explanation is in entire
disagreement with the view that the dream owes its origin to dissociated, uncritical cerebral activity, I
will emphasize my view by an example:
"One of my acquaintances, Mr. M____, has been attacked by no less a person than Goethe in an essay
with, we all maintain, unwarrantable violence. Mr. M____ has naturally been ruined by this attack.
He complains very bitterly of this at a dinner-party, but his respect for Goethe has not diminished
through this personal experience. I now attempt to clear up the chronological relations which strike
me as improbable. Goethe died in 1832. As his attack upon Mr. M____ must, of course, have taken
place before, Mr. M____ must have been then a very young man. It seems to me plausible that he was
eighteen. I am not certain, however, what year we are actually in, and the whole calculation falls into
obscurity. The attack was, moreover, contained in Goethe's well-known essay on 'Nature.'"
The absurdity of the dream becomes the more glaring when I state that Mr. M____ is a young business
man without any poetical or literary interests. My analysis of the dream will show what method there
is in this madness. The dream has derived its material from three sources:
1. Mr. M____, to whom I was introduced at a dinner-party, begged me one day to examine his elder
brother, who showed signs of mental trouble. In conversation with the patient, an unpleasant episode
occurred. Without the slightest occasion he disclosed one of his brother's youthful escapades. I had
asked the patient the year of his birth (year of death in dream), and led him to various calculations
which might show up his want of memory.
2. A medical journal which displayed my name among others on the cover had published
a ruinous review of a book by my friend F____ of Berlin, from the pen of a very juvenile reviewer. I
communicated with the editor, who, indeed, expressed his regret, but would not promise any redress.
Thereupon I broke off my connection with the paper; in my letter of resignation I expressed the hope
that our personal relations would not suffer from this. Here is the real source of the dream. The
derogatory reception of my friend's work had made a deep impression upon me. In my judgment, it
contained a fundamental biological discovery which only now, several years later, commences to find
favor among the professors.
3. A little while before, a patient gave me the medical history of her brother, who, exclaiming "Nature,
Nature!" had gone out of his mind. The doctors considered that the exclamation arose from a study
of Goethe's beautiful essay, and indicated that the patient had been overworking. I expressed the
opinion that it seemed more plausible to me that the exclamation "Nature!" was to be taken in that
sexual meaning known also to the less educated in our country. It seemed to me that this view had
something in it, because the unfortunate youth afterwards mutilated his genital organs. The patient was
eighteen years old when the attack occurred.
The first person in the dream-thoughts behind the ego was my friend who had been so scandalously
treated. "I now attempted to clear up the chronological relation." My friend's book deals with the
chronological relations of life, and, amongst other things, correlates Goethe's duration of life with a
number of days in many ways important to biology. The ego is, however, represented as a general
paralytic ("I am not certain what year we are actually in"). The dream exhibits my friend as behaving
like a general paralytic, and thus riots in absurdity. But the dream thoughts run ironically. "Of course
he is a madman, a fool, and you are the genius who understands all about it. But shouldn't it be
the other way round?" This inversion obviously took place in the dream when Goethe attacked the
young man, which is absurd, whilst any one, however young, can to-day easily attack the great Goethe.
I am prepared to maintain that no dream is inspired by other than egoistic emotions. The ego in the
dream does not, indeed, represent only my friend, but stands for myself also. I identify myself with
him because the fate of his discovery appears to me typical of the acceptance of my own. If I were to
publish my own theory, which gives sexuality predominance in the ætiology of psychoneurotic
disorders (see the allusion to the eighteen-year-old patient—"Nature, Nature!"), the same criticism
would be leveled at me, and it would even now meet with the same contempt.
When I follow out the dream thoughts closely, I ever find only scorn and contempt as correlated with
the dream's absurdity. It is well known that the discovery of a cracked sheep's skull on the Lido
in Venice gave Goethe the hint for the so-called vertebral theory of the skull. My friend plumes
himself on having as a student raised a hubbub for the resignation of an aged professor who had done
good work (including some in this very subject of comparative anatomy), but who, on account
of decrepitude, had become quite incapable of teaching. The agitation my friend inspired was so
successful because in the German Universities an age limit is not demanded for academic work. Age is
no protection against folly. In the hospital here I had for years the honor to serve under a chief who,
long fossilized, was for decades notoriously feebleminded, and was yet permitted to continue in his
responsible office. A trait, after the manner of the find in the Lido, forces itself upon me here. It was to
this man that some youthful colleagues in the hospital adapted the then popular slang of that day: "No
Goethe has written that," "No Schiller composed that," etc.
We have not exhausted our valuation of the dream work. In addition to condensation, displacement,
and definite arrangement of the psychical matter, we must ascribe to it yet another activity—one which
is, indeed, not shared by every dream. I shall not treat this position of the dream work exhaustively; I
will only point out that the readiest way to arrive at a conception of it is to take for granted, probably
unfairly, that it only subsequently influences the dream content which has already been built up. Its
mode of action thus consists in so coördinating the parts of the dream that these coalesce to a coherent
whole, to a dream composition. The dream gets a kind of façade which, it is true, does not conceal the
whole of its content. There is a sort of preliminary explanation to be strengthened by interpolations and
slight alterations. Such elaboration of the dream content must not be too pronounced; the
misconception of the dream thoughts to which it gives rise is merely superficial, and our first piece of
work in analyzing a dream is to get rid of these early attempts at interpretation.
The motives for this part of the dream work are easily gauged. This final elaboration of the dream is
due to a regard for intelligibility—a fact at once betraying the origin of an action which behaves
towards the actual dream content just as our normal psychical action behaves towards some proffered
perception that is to our liking. The dream content is thus secured under the pretense of certain
expectations, is perceptually classified by the supposition of its intelligibility, thereby risking its
falsification, whilst, in fact, the most extraordinary misconceptions arise if the dream can be correlated
with nothing familiar. Every one is aware that we are unable to look at any series of unfamiliar signs,
or to listen to a discussion of unknown words, without at once making perpetual changes through our
regard for intelligibility, through our falling back upon what is familiar.
We can call those dreams properly made up which are the result of an elaboration in every way
analogous to the psychical action of our waking life. In other dreams there is no such action; not even
an attempt is made to bring about order and meaning. We regard the dream as "quite mad," because on
awaking it is with this last-named part of the dream work, the dream elaboration, that we identify
ourselves. So far, however, as our analysis is concerned, the dream, which resembles a medley of
disconnected fragments, is of as much value as the one with a smooth and beautifully polished surface.
In the former case we are spared, to some extent, the trouble of breaking down the super-elaboration of
the dream content.
All the same, it would be an error to see in the dream façade nothing but the misunderstood and
somewhat arbitrary elaboration of the dream carried out at the instance of our psychical life. Wishes
and phantasies are not infrequently employed in the erection of this façade, which were already
fashioned in the dream thoughts; they are akin to those of our waking life—"day-dreams," as they are
very properly called. These wishes and phantasies, which analysis discloses in our dreams at night,
often present themselves as repetitions and refashionings of the scenes of infancy. Thus the dream
façade may show us directly the true core of the dream, distorted through admixture with other matter.
Beyond these four activities there is nothing else to be discovered in the dream work. If we keep
closely to the definition that dream work denotes the transference of dream thoughts to dream content,
we are compelled to say that the dream work is not creative; it develops no fancies of its own, it judges
nothing, decides nothing. It does nothing but prepare the matter for condensation and displacement,
and refashions it for dramatization, to which must be added the inconstant last-named mechanism—
that of explanatory elaboration. It is true that a good deal is found in the dream content which might be
understood as the result of another and more intellectual performance; but analysis shows conclusively
every time that these intellectual operations were already present in the dream thoughts, and have
only been taken over by the dream content. A syllogism in the dream is nothing other than the
repetition of a syllogism in the dream thoughts; it seems inoffensive if it has been transferred to the
dream without alteration; it becomes absurd if in the dream work it has been transferred to other
matter. A calculation in the dream content simply means that there was a calculation in the dream
thoughts; whilst this is always correct, the calculation in the dream can furnish the silliest results by the
condensation of its factors and the displacement of the same operations to other things. Even speeches
which are found in the dream content are not new compositions; they prove to be pieced together out
of speeches which have been made or heard or read; the words are faithfully copied, but the occasion
of their utterance is quite overlooked, and their meaning is most violently changed.
It is, perhaps, not superfluous to support these assertions by examples:
1. A seemingly inoffensive, well-made dream of a patient. She was going to market with her cook, who
carried the basket. The butcher said to her when she asked him for something: "That is all gone," and
wished to give her something else, remarking; "That's very good." She declines, and goes to the
greengrocer, who wants to sell her a peculiar vegetable which is bound up in bundles and of a black
color. She says: "I don't know that; I won't take it."
The remark "That is all gone" arose from the treatment. A few days before I said myself to the patient
that the earliest reminiscences of childhood are all gone as such, but are replaced by transferences and
dreams. Thus I am the butcher.
The second remark, "I don't know that" arose in a very different connection. The day before she had
herself called out in rebuke to the cook (who, moreover, also appears in the dream): "Behave yourself
properly; I don't knowthat"—that is, "I don't know this kind of behavior; I won't have it." The more
harmless portion of this speech was arrived at by a displacement of the dream content; in the dream
thoughts only the other portion of the speech played a part, because the dream work changed an
imaginary situation into utter irrecognizability and complete inoffensiveness (while in a certain sense I
behave in an unseemly way to the lady). The situation resulting in this phantasy is, however, nothing
but a new edition of one that actually took place.
2. A dream apparently meaningless relates to figures. "She wants to pay something; her daughter takes
three florins sixty-five kreuzers out of her purse; but she says: 'What are you doing? It only cost
twenty-one kreuzers.'"
The dreamer was a stranger who had placed her child at school in Vienna, and who was able to
continue under my treatment so long as her daughter remained at Vienna. The day before the dream
the directress of the school had recommended her to keep the child another year at school. In this case
she would have been able to prolong her treatment by one year. The figures in the dream become
important if it be remembered that time is money. One year equals 365 days, or, expressed in kreuzers,
365 kreuzers, which is three florins sixty-five kreuzers. The twenty-one kreuzers correspond with the
three weeks which remained from the day of the dream to the end of the school term, and thus to the
end of the treatment. It was obviously financial considerations which had moved the lady to refuse the
proposal of the directress, and which were answerable for the triviality of the amount in the dream.
3. A lady, young, but already ten years married, heard that a friend of hers, Miss Elise L____, of about
the same age, had become engaged. This gave rise to the following dream:
She was sitting with her husband in the theater; the one side of the stalls was quite empty.
Her husband tells her, Elise L____ and her fiancé had intended coming, but could only get some
cheap seats, three for one florin fifty kreuzers, and these they would not take. In her opinion, that
would not have mattered very much.
The origin of the figures from the matter of the dream thoughts and the changes the figures underwent
are of interest. Whence came the one florin fifty kreuzers? From a trifling occurrence of the previous
day. Her sister-in-law had received 150 florins as a present from her husband, and had quickly got rid
of it by buying some ornament. Note that 150 florins is one hundred times one florin fifty kreuzers. For
the three concerned with the tickets, the only link is that Elise L____ is exactly three months younger
than the dreamer. The scene in the dream is the repetition of a little adventure for which she has often
been teased by her husband. She was once in a great hurry to get tickets in time for a piece, and when
she came to the theater one side of the stalls was almost empty. It was therefore quite unnecessary for
her to have been in such a hurry. Nor must we overlook the absurdity of the dream that two persons
should take three tickets for the theater.
Now for the dream ideas. It was stupid to have married so early; I need not have been in so great
a hurry. Elise L____'s example shows me that I should have been able to get a husband later; indeed,
one a hundred times better if I had but waited. I could have bought three such men with the money
(dowry).
Footnote 1: "Ich möchte gerne etwas geniessen ohne 'Kosten' zu haben." A a pun upon the word "kosten," which
has two meanings—"taste" and "cost." In "Die Traumdeutung," third edition, p. 71 footnote, Professor Freud
remarks that "the finest example of dream interpretation left us by the ancients is based upon a pun" (from "The
Interpretation of Dreams," by Artemidorus Daldianus). "Moreover, dreams are so intimately bound up with
language that Ferenczi truly points out that every tongue has its own language of dreams. A dream is as a rule
untranslatable into other languages."—TRANSLATOR.
Footnote 2: It is worthy of remark that eminent philologists maintain that the oldest languages used the same word
for expressing quite general antitheses. In C. Abel's essay, "Ueber den Gegensinn der Urworter" (1884, the
following examples of such words in England are given: "gleam—gloom"; "to lock—loch"; "down—The Downs";
"to step—to stop." In his essay on "The Origin of Language" ("Linguistic Essays," p. 240), Abel says: "When the
Englishman says 'without,' is not his judgment based upon the comparative juxtaposition of two opposites, 'with'
and 'out'; 'with' itself originally meant 'without,' as may still be seen in 'withdraw.' 'Bid' includes the opposite sense
of giving and of proffering." Abel, "The English Verbs of Command," "Linguistic Essays," p. 104; see also Freud,
"Ueber den Gegensinn der Urworte"; Jahrbuch für Psychoanalytische und Psychopathologische Forschungen,
Band II., part i., p. 179).—TRANSLATOR.
III
WHY THE DREAM DISGUISES THE DESIRES
In the foregoing exposition we have now learnt something of the dream work; we must regard it as a
quite special psychical process, which, so far as we are aware, resembles nothing else. To the dream
work has been transferred that bewilderment which its product, the dream, has aroused in us. In truth,
the dream work is only the first recognition of a group of psychical processes to which must be
referred the origin of hysterical symptoms, the ideas of morbid dread, obsession, and illusion.
Condensation, and especially displacement, are never-failing features in these other processes. The
regard for appearance remains, on the other hand, peculiar to the dream work. If this explanation
brings the dream into line with the formation of psychical disease, it becomes the more important to
fathom the essential conditions of processes like dream building. It will be probably a surprise to hear
that neither the state of sleep nor illness is among the indispensable conditions. A whole number of
phenomena of the everyday life of healthy persons, forgetfulness, slips in speaking and in holding
things, together with a certain class of mistakes, are due to a psychical mechanism analogous to that of
the dream and the other members of this group.
Displacement is the core of the problem, and the most striking of all the dream performances. A
thorough investigation of the subject shows that the essential condition of displacement is purely
psychological; it is in the nature of a motive. We get on the track by thrashing out experiences which
one cannot avoid in the analysis of dreams. I had to break off the relations of my dream thoughts in the
analysis of my dream on p. 8 because I found some experiences which I do not wish strangers to know,
and which I could not relate without serious damage to important considerations. I added, it would be
no use were I to select another instead of that particular dream; in every dream where the content is
obscure or intricate, I should hit upon dream thoughts which call for secrecy. If, however, I continue
the analysis for myself, without regard to those others, for whom, indeed, so personal an event as my
dream cannot matter, I arrive finally at ideas which surprise me, which I have not known to be mine,
which not only appear foreign to me, but which are unpleasant, and which I would like to oppose
vehemently, whilst the chain of ideas running through the analysis intrudes upon me inexorably. I can
only take these circumstances into account by admitting that these thoughts are actually part of my
psychical life, possessing a certain psychical intensity or energy. However, by virtue of a particular
psychological condition, the thoughts could not become conscious to me. I call this particular condition
"Repression." It is therefore impossible for me not to recognize some casual relationship between the
obscurity of the dream content and this state of repression—this incapacity of consciousness. Whence I
conclude that the cause of the obscurity is the desire to conceal these thoughts. Thus I arrive at the
conception of the dream distortion as the deed of the dream work, and of displacement serving to
disguise this object.
I will test this in my own dream, and ask myself, What is the thought which, quite innocuous in its
distorted form, provokes my liveliest opposition in its real form? I remember that the free drive
reminded me of the last expensive drive with a member of my family, the interpretation of the dream
being: I should for once like to experience affection for which I should not have to pay, and that
shortly before the dream I had to make a heavy disbursement for this very person. In this connection, I
cannot get away from the thought that I regret this disbursement. It is only when I acknowledge this
feeling that there is any sense in my wishing in the dream for an affection that should entail no outlay.
And yet I can state on my honor that I did not hesitate for a moment when it became necessary to
expend that sum. The regret, the counter-current, was unconscious to me. Why it was unconscious is
quite another question which would lead us far away from the answer which, though within my
knowledge, belongs elsewhere.
If I subject the dream of another person instead of one of my own to analysis, the result is the same;
the motives for convincing others is, however, changed. In the dream of a healthy person the only way
for me to enable him to accept this repressed idea is the coherence of the dream thoughts. He is at
liberty to reject this explanation. But if we are dealing with a person suffering from any neurosis—say
from hysteria—the recognition of these repressed ideas is compulsory by reason of their connection
with the symptoms of his illness and of the improvement resulting from exchanging the symptoms for
the repressed ideas. Take the patient from whom I got the last dream about the three tickets for one
florin fifty kreuzers. Analysis shows that she does not think highly of her husband, that she regrets
having married him, that she would be glad to change him for some one else. It is true that she
maintains that she loves her husband, that her emotional life knows nothing about this depreciation (a
hundred times better!), but all her symptoms lead to the same conclusion as this dream. When her
repressed memories had rewakened a certain period when she was conscious that she did not love her
husband, her symptoms disappeared, and therewith disappeared her resistance to the interpretation of
the dream.
This conception of repression once fixed, together with the distortion of the dream in relation to
repressed psychical matter, we are in a position to give a general exposition of the principal results
which the analysis of dreams supplies. We learnt that the most intelligible and meaningful dreams are
unrealized desires; the desires they pictured as realized are known to consciousness, have been held
over from the daytime, and are of absorbing interest. The analysis of obscure and intricate dreams
discloses something very similar; the dream scene again pictures as realized some desire which
regularly proceeds from the dream ideas, but the picture is unrecognizable, and is only cleared up in
the analysis. The desire itself is either one repressed, foreign to consciousness, or it is closely bound
up with repressed ideas. The formula for these dreams may be thus stated: They are concealed
realizations of repressed desires. It is interesting to note that they are right who regard the dream as
foretelling the future. Although the future which the dream shows us is not that which will occur, but
that which we would like to occur. Folk psychology proceeds here according to its wont; it believes
what it wishes to believe.
Dreams can be divided into three classes according to their relation towards the realization of desire.
Firstly come those which exhibit a non-repressed, non-concealed desire; these are dreams of the
infantile type, becoming ever rarer among adults. Secondly, dreams which express in veiled form
some repressed desire; these constitute by far the larger number of our dreams, and they require
analysis for their understanding. Thirdly, these dreams where repression exists, but without or with but
slight concealment. These dreams are invariably accompanied by a feeling of dread which brings the
dream to an end. This feeling of dread here replaces dream displacement; I regarded the dream work as
having prevented this in the dream of the second class. It is not very difficult to prove that what is now
present as intense dread in the dream was once desire, and is now secondary to the repression.
There are also definite dreams with a painful content, without the presence of any anxiety in the
dream. These cannot be reckoned among dreams of dread; they have, however, always been used to
prove the unimportance and the psychical futility of dreams. An analysis of such an example will show
that it belongs to our second class of dreams—a perfectly concealed realization of repressed desires.
Analysis will demonstrate at the same time how excellently adapted is the work of displacement to the
concealment of desires.
A girl dreamt that she saw lying dead before her the only surviving child of her sister amid the same
surroundings as a few years before she saw the first child lying dead. She was not sensible of any pain,
but naturally combatted the view that the scene represented a desire of hers. Nor was that view
necessary. Years ago it was at the funeral of the child that she had last seen and spoken to the man she
loved. Were the second child to die, she would be sure to meet this man again in her sister's house. She
is longing to meet him, but struggles against this feeling. The day of the dream she had taken a ticket
for a lecture, which announced the presence of the man she always loved. The dream is simply a dream
of impatience common to those which happen before a journey, theater, or simply anticipated
pleasures. The longing is concealed by the shifting of the scene to the occasion when any joyous
feeling were out of place, and yet where it did once exist. Note, further, that the emotional behavior in
the dream is adapted, not to the displaced, but to the real but suppressed dream ideas. The scene
anticipates the long-hoped-for meeting; there is here no call for painful emotions.
There has hitherto been no occasion for philosophers to bestir themselves with a psychology of
repression. We must be allowed to construct some clear conception as to the origin of dreams as the
first steps in this unknown territory. The scheme which we have formulated not only from a study of
dreams is, it is true, already somewhat complicated, but we cannot find any simpler one that will
suffice. We hold that our psychical apparatus contains two procedures for the construction of thoughts.
The second one has the advantage that its products find an open path to consciousness, whilst the
activity of the first procedure is unknown to itself, and can only arrive at consciousness through the
second one. At the borderland of these two procedures, where the first passes over into the second, a
censorship is established which only passes what pleases it, keeping back everything else. That which
is rejected by the censorship is, according to our definition, in a state of repression. Under certain
conditions, one of which is the sleeping state, the balance of power between the two procedures is so
changed that what is repressed can no longer be kept back. In the sleeping state this may possibly
occur through the negligence of the censor; what has been hitherto repressed will now succeed in
finding its way to consciousness. But as the censorship is never absent, but merely off guard, certain
alterations must be conceded so as to placate it. It is a compromise which becomes conscious in this
case—a compromise between what one procedure has in view and the demands of the
other. Repression, laxity of the censor, compromise—this is the foundation for the origin of many
another psychological process, just as it is for the dream. In such compromises we can observe the
processes of condensation, of displacement, the acceptance of superficial associations, which we have
found in the dream work.
It is not for us to deny the demonic element which has played a part in constructing our explanation of
dream work. The impression left is that the formation of obscure dreams proceeds as if a person had
something to say which must be agreeable for another person upon whom he is dependent to hear. It is
by the use of this image that we figure to ourselves the conception of the dream distortion and of the
censorship, and ventured to crystallize our impression in a rather crude, but at least definite,
psychological theory. Whatever explanation the future may offer of these first and second procedures,
we shall expect a confirmation of our correlate that the second procedure commands the entrance to
consciousness, and can exclude the first from consciousness.
Once the sleeping state overcome, the censorship resumes complete sway, and is now able to revoke
that which was granted in a moment of weakness. That the forgetting of dreams explains this in part, at
least, we are convinced by our experience, confirmed again and again. During the relation of a dream,
or during analysis of one, it not infrequently happens that some fragment of the dream is suddenly
forgotten. This fragment so forgotten invariably contains the best and readiest approach to an
understanding of the dream. Probably that is why it sinks into oblivion—i.e., into a renewed
suppression.
Viewing the dream content as the representation of a realized desire, and referring its vagueness to the
changes made by the censor in the repressed matter, it is no longer difficult to grasp the function of
dreams. In fundamental contrast with those saws which assume that sleep is disturbed by dreams, we
hold the dream as the guardian of sleep. So far as children's dreams are concerned, our view should
find ready acceptance.
The sleeping state or the psychical change to sleep, whatsoever it be, is brought about by the child
being sent to sleep or compelled thereto by fatigue, only assisted by the removal of all stimuli which
might open other objects to the psychical apparatus. The means which serve to keep external stimuli
distant are known; but what are the means we can employ to depress the internal psychical stimuli
which frustrate sleep? Look at a mother getting her child to sleep. The child is full of beseeching; he
wants another kiss; he wants to play yet awhile. His requirements are in part met, in part drastically put
off till the following day. Clearly these desires and needs, which agitate him, are hindrances to sleep.
Every one knows the charming story of the bad boy (Baldwin Groller's) who awoke at night bellowing
out, "I want the rhinoceros." A really good boy, instead of bellowing, would have dreamt that he was
playing with the rhinoceros. Because the dream which realizes his desire is believed during sleep, it
removes the desire and makes sleep possible. It cannot be denied that this belief accords with the
dream image, because it is arrayed in the psychical appearance of probability; the child is without the
capacity which it will acquire later to distinguish hallucinations or phantasies from reality.
The adult has learnt this differentiation; he has also learnt the futility of desire, and by continuous
practice manages to postpone his aspirations, until they can be granted in some roundabout method by
a change in the external world. For this reason it is rare for him to have his wishes realized during
sleep in the short psychical way. It is even possible that this never happens, and that everything which
appears to us like a child's dream demands a much more elaborate explanation. Thus it is that for
adults—for every sane person without exception—a differentiation of the psychical matter has been
fashioned which the child knew not. A psychical procedure has been reached which, informed by the
experience of life, exercises with jealous power a dominating and restraining influence upon psychical
emotions; by its relation to consciousness, and by its spontaneous mobility, it is endowed with the
greatest means of psychical power. A portion of the infantile emotions has been withheld from this
procedure as useless to life, and all the thoughts which flow from these are found in the state of
repression.
Whilst the procedure in which we recognize our normal ego reposes upon the desire for sleep, it
appears compelled by the psycho-physiological conditions of sleep to abandon some of the energy
with which it was wont during the day to keep down what was repressed. This neglect is really
harmless; however much the emotions of the child's spirit may be stirred, they find the approach to
consciousness rendered difficult, and that to movement blocked in consequence of the state of sleep.
The danger of their disturbing sleep must, however, be avoided. Moreover, we must admit that even in
deep sleep some amount of free attention is exerted as a protection against sense-stimuli which might,
perchance, make an awakening seem wiser than the continuance of sleep. Otherwise we could not
explain the fact of our being always awakened by stimuli of certain quality. As the old physiologist
Burdach pointed out, the mother is awakened by the whimpering of her child, the miller by the
cessation of his mill, most people by gently calling out their names. This attention, thus on the alert,
makes use of the internal stimuli arising from repressed desires, and fuses them into the dream, which
as a compromise satisfies both procedures at the same time. The dream creates a form of psychical
release for the wish which is either suppressed or formed by the aid of repression, inasmuch as it
presents it as realized. The other procedure is also satisfied, since the continuance of the sleep is
assured. Our ego here gladly behaves like a child; it makes the dream pictures believable, saying, as it
were, "Quite right, but let me sleep." The contempt which, once awakened, we bear the dream, and
which rests upon the absurdity and apparent illogicality of the dream, is probably nothing but the
reasoning of our sleeping ego on the feelings about what was repressed; with greater right it should
rest upon the incompetency of this disturber of our sleep. In sleep we are now and then aware of this
contempt; the dream content transcends the censorship rather too much, we think, "It's only a dream,"
and sleep on.
It is no objection to this view if there are borderlines for the dream where its function, to preserve sleep
from interruption, can no longer be maintained—as in the dreams of impending dread. It is here
changed for another function—to suspend the sleep at the proper time. It acts like a conscientious
night-watchman, who first does his duty by quelling disturbances so as not to waken the citizen, but
equally does his duty quite properly when he awakens the street should the causes of the trouble seem
to him serious and himself unable to cope with them alone.
This function of dreams becomes especially well marked when there arises some incentive for the
sense perception. That the senses aroused during sleep influence the dream is well known, and can be
experimentally verified; it is one of the certain but much overestimated results of the medical
investigation of dreams. Hitherto there has been an insoluble riddle connected with this discovery. The
stimulus to the sense by which the investigator affects the sleeper is not properly recognized in the
dream, but is intermingled with a number of indefinite interpretations, whose determination appears
left to psychical free-will. There is, of course, no such psychical free-will. To an external sense-
stimulus the sleeper can react in many ways. Either he awakens or he succeeds in sleeping on. In the
latter case he can make use of the dream to dismiss the external stimulus, and this, again, in more ways
than one. For instance, he can stay the stimulus by dreaming of a scene which is absolutely intolerable
to him. This was the means used by one who was troubled by a painful perineal abscess. He dreamt
that he was on horseback, and made use of the poultice, which was intended to alleviate his pain, as a
saddle, and thus got away from the cause of the trouble. Or, as is more frequently the case, the external
stimulus undergoes a new rendering, which leads him to connect it with a repressed desire seeking its
realization, and robs him of its reality, and is treated as if it were a part of the psychical matter. Thus,
some one dreamt that he had written a comedy which embodied a definite motif; it was being
performed; the first act was over amid enthusiastic applause; there was great clapping. At this moment
the dreamer must have succeeded in prolonging his sleep despite the disturbance, for when he woke he
no longer heard the noise; he concluded rightly that some one must have been beating a carpet or bed.
The dreams which come with a loud noise just before waking have all attempted to cover the stimulus
to waking by some other explanation, and thus to prolong the sleep for a little while.
Whosoever has firmly accepted this censorship as the chief motive for the distortion of dreams will not
be surprised to learn as the result of dream interpretation that most of the dreams of adults are traced
by analysis to erotic desires. This assertion is not drawn from dreams obviously of a sexual nature,
which are known to all dreamers from their own experience, and are the only ones usually described as
"sexual dreams." These dreams are ever sufficiently mysterious by reason of the choice of persons who
are made the objects of sex, the removal of all the barriers which cry halt to the dreamer's sexual needs
in his waking state, the many strange reminders as to details of what are called perversions. But
analysis discovers that, in many other dreams in whose manifest content nothing erotic can be found,
the work of interpretation shows them up as, in reality, realization of sexual desires; whilst, on the
other hand, that much of the thought-making when awake, the thoughts saved us as surplus from the
day only, reaches presentation in dreams with the help of repressed erotic desires.
Towards the explanation of this statement, which is no theoretical postulate, it must be remembered
that no other class of instincts has required so vast a suppression at the behest of civilization as the
sexual, whilst their mastery by the highest psychical processes are in most persons soonest of all
relinquished. Since we have learnt to understand infantile sexuality, often so vague in its expression, so
invariably overlooked and misunderstood, we are justified in saying that nearly every civilized person
has retained at some point or other the infantile type of sex life; thus we understand that repressed
infantile sex desires furnish the most frequent and most powerful impulses for the formation of
dreams.1
If the dream, which is the expression of some erotic desire, succeeds in making its manifest content
appear innocently asexual, it is only possible in one way. The matter of these sexual presentations
cannot be exhibited as such, but must be replaced by allusions, suggestions, and similar indirect
means; differing from other cases of indirect presentation, those used in dreams must be deprived of
direct understanding. The means of presentation which answer these requirements are commonly
termed "symbols." A special interest has been directed towards these, since it has been observed that
the dreamers of the same language use the like symbols—indeed, that in certain cases community of
symbol is greater than community of speech. Since the dreamers do not themselves know the meaning
of the symbols they use, it remains a puzzle whence arises their relationship with what they replace
and denote. The fact itself is undoubted, and becomes of importance for the technique of
the interpretation of dreams, since by the aid of a knowledge of this symbolism it is possible to
understand the meaning of the elements of a dream, or parts of a dream, occasionally even the whole
dream itself, without having to question the dreamer as to his own ideas. We thus come near to the
popular idea of an interpretation of dreams, and, on the other hand, possess again the technique of the
ancients, among whom the interpretation of dreams was identical with their explanation through
symbolism.
Though the study of dream symbolism is far removed from finality, we now possess a series of general
statements and of particular observations which are quite certain. There are symbols which practically
always have the same meaning: Emperor and Empress (King and Queen) always mean the parents;
room, a woman2, and so on. The sexes are represented by a great variety of symbols, many of which
would be at first quite incomprehensible had not the clews to the meaning been often obtained through
other channels.
There are symbols of universal circulation, found in all dreamers, of one range of speech and
culture; there are others of the narrowest individual significance which an individual has built up out of
his own material. In the first class those can be differentiated whose claim can be at once recognized
by the replacement of sexual things in common speech (those, for instance, arising from agriculture, as
reproduction, seed) from others whose sexual references appear to reach back to the earliest times and
to the obscurest depths of our image-building. The power of building symbols in both these special
forms of symbols has not died out. Recently discovered things, like the airship, are at once brought
into universal use as sex symbols.
It would be quite an error to suppose that a profounder knowledge of dream symbolism (the
"Language of Dreams") would make us independent of questioning the dreamer regarding his
impressions about the dream, and would give us back the whole technique of ancient dream
interpreters. Apart from individual symbols and the variations in the use of what is general, one never
knows whether an element in the dream is to be understood symbolically or in its proper meaning; the
whole content of the dream is certainly not to be interpreted symbolically. The knowledge of dream
symbols will only help us in understanding portions of the dream content, and does not render the use
of the technical rules previously given at all superfluous. But it must be of the greatest service in
interpreting a dream just when the impressions of the dreamer are withheld or are insufficient.
Dream symbolism proves also indispensable for understanding the so-called "typical" dreams and the
dreams that "repeat themselves." Dream symbolism leads us far beyond the dream; it does not belong
only to dreams, but is likewise dominant in legend, myth, and saga, in wit and in folklore. It compels
us to pursue the inner meaning of the dream in these productions. But we must acknowledge that
symbolism is not a result of the dream work, but is a peculiarity probably of our unconscious thinking,
which furnishes to the dream work the matter for condensation, displacement, and dramatization.
Footnote 1: Freud, "Three Contributions to Sexual Theory," translated by A.A. Brill (Journal of Nervous and
Mental Disease Publishing Company, New York).
Footnote 2: The words from "and" to "channels" in the next sentence is a short summary of the passage in the
original. As this book will be read by other than professional people the passage has not been translated, in
deference to English opinion.—TRANSLATOR.
IV
DREAM ANALYSIS
Perhaps we shall now begin to suspect that dream interpretation is capable of giving us hints about the
structure of our psychic apparatus which we have thus far expected in vain from philosophy. We shall
not, however, follow this track, but return to our original problem as soon as we have cleared up the
subject of dream-disfigurement. The question has arisen how dreams with disagreeable content can be
analyzed as the fulfillment of wishes. We see now that this is possible in case dream-disfigurement has
taken place, in case the disagreeable content serves only as a disguise for what is wished. Keeping in
mind our assumptions in regard to the two psychic instances, we may now proceed to say: disagreeable
dreams, as a matter of fact, contain something which is disagreeable to the second instance, but which
at the same time fulfills a wish of the first instance. They are wish dreams in the sense that every
dream originates in the first instance, while the second instance acts towards the dream only in
repelling, not in a creative manner. If we limit ourselves to a consideration of what the second instance
contributes to the dream, we can never understand the dream. If we do so, all the riddles which the
authors have found in the dream remain unsolved.
That the dream actually has a secret meaning, which turns out to be the fulfillment of a wish, must be
proved afresh for every case by means of an analysis. I therefore select several dreams which have
painful contents and attempt an analysis of them. They are partly dreams of hysterical subjects, which
require long preliminary statements, and now and then also an examination of the psychic processes
which occur in hysteria. I cannot, however, avoid this added difficulty in the exposition.
When I give a psychoneurotic patient analytical treatment, dreams are always, as I have said, the
subject of our discussion. It must, therefore, give him all the psychological explanations through
whose aid I myself have come to an understanding of his symptoms, and here I undergo an unsparing
criticism, which is perhaps not less keen than that I must expect from my colleagues. Contradiction of
the thesis that all dreams are the fulfillments of wishes is raised by my patients with perfect regularity.
Here are several examples of the dream material which is offered me to refute this position.
"You always tell me that the dream is a wish fulfilled," begins a clever lady patient. "Now I shall tell
you a dream in which the content is quite the opposite, in which a wish of mine is not fulfilled. How
do you reconcile that with your theory? The dream is as follows:—
"I want to give a supper, but having nothing at hand except some smoked salmon, I think of going
marketing, but I remember that it is Sunday afternoon, when all the shops are closed. I next try to
telephone to some caterers, but the telephone is out of order.... Thus I must resign my wish to give a
supper."
I answer, of course, that only the analysis can decide the meaning of this dream, although I admit that
at first sight it seems sensible and coherent, and looks like the opposite of a wish-fulfillment. "But
what occurrence has given rise to this dream?" I ask. "You know that the stimulus for a dream always
lies among the experiences of the preceding day."
Analysis.—The husband of the patient, an upright and conscientious wholesale butcher, had told her
the day before that he is growing too fat, and that he must, therefore, begin treatment for obesity. He
was going to get up early, take exercise, keep to a strict diet, and above all accept no more invitations
to suppers. She proceeds laughingly to relate how her husband at an inn table had made the
acquaintance of an artist, who insisted upon painting his portrait because he, the painter, had never
found such an expressive head. But her husband had answered in his rough way, that he was very
thankful for the honor, but that he was quite convinced that a portion of the backside of a pretty young
girl would please the artist better than his whole face 1. She said that she was at the time very much in
love with her husband, and teased him a good deal. She had also asked him not to send her any
caviare. What does that mean?
As a matter of fact, she had wanted for a long time to eat a caviare sandwich every forenoon, but had
grudged herself the expense. Of course, she would at once get the caviare from her husband, as soon as
she asked him for it. But she had begged him, on the contrary, not to send her the caviare, in order that
she might tease him about it longer.
This explanation seems far-fetched to me. Unadmitted motives are in the habit of hiding behind such
unsatisfactory explanations. We are reminded of subjects hypnotized by Bernheim, who carried out a
posthypnotic order, and who, upon being asked for their motives, instead of answering: "I do not know
why I did that," had to invent a reason that was obviously inadequate. Something similar is probably
the case with the caviare of my patient. I see that she is compelled to create an unfulfilled wish in life.
Her dream also shows the reproduction of the wish as accomplished. But why does she need an
unfulfilled wish?
The ideas so far produced are insufficient for the interpretation of the dream. I beg for more. After a
short pause, which corresponds to the overcoming of a resistance, she reports further that the day
before she had made a visit to a friend, of whom she is really jealous, because her husband is always
praising this woman so much. Fortunately, this friend is very lean and thin, and her husband likes well-
rounded figures. Now of what did this lean friend speak? Naturally of her wish to become somewhat
stouter. She also asked my patient: "When are you going to invite us again? You always have such a
good table."
Now the meaning of the dream is clear. I may say to the patient: "It is just as though you had thought
at the time of the request: 'Of course, I'll invite you, so you can eat yourself fat at my house and
become still more pleasing to my husband. I would rather give no more suppers.' The dream then tells
you that you cannot give a supper, thereby fulfilling your wish not to contribute anything to the
rounding out of your friend's figure. The resolution of your husband to refuse invitations to supper for
the sake of getting thin teaches you that one grows fat on the things served in company." Now only
some conversation is necessary to confirm the solution. The smoked salmon in the dream has not yet
been traced. "How did the salmon mentioned in the dream occur to you?" "Smoked salmon is the
favorite dish of this friend," she answered. I happen to know the lady, and may corroborate this by
saying that she grudges herself the salmon just as much as my patient grudges herself the caviare.
The dream admits of still another and more exact interpretation, which is necessitated only by a
subordinate circumstance. The two interpretations do not contradict one another, but rather cover each
other and furnish a neat example of the usual ambiguity of dreams as well as of all other
psychopathological formations. We have seen that at the same time that she dreams of the denial of the
wish, the patient is in reality occupied in securing an unfulfilled wish (the caviare sandwiches).
Her friend, too, had expressed a wish, namely, to get fatter, and it would not surprise us if our lady had
dreamt that the wish of the friend was not being fulfilled. For it is her own wish that a wish of her
friend's—for increase in weight—should not be fulfilled. Instead of this, however, she dreams that one
of her own wishes is not fulfilled. The dream becomes capable of a new interpretation, if in the dream
she does not intend herself, but her friend, if she has put herself in the place of her friend, or, as we
may say, has identified herself with her friend.
I think she has actually done this, and as a sign of this identification she has created an unfulfilled wish
in reality. But what is the meaning of this hysterical identification? To clear this up a thorough
exposition is necessary. Identification is a highly important factor in the mechanism of hysterical
symptoms; by this means patients are enabled in their symptoms to represent not merely their own
experiences, but the experiences of a great number of other persons, and can suffer, as it were, for a
whole mass of people, and fill all the parts of a drama by means of their own personalities alone. It will
here be objected that this is well-known hysterical imitation, the ability of hysteric subjects to copy all
the symptoms which impress them when they occur in others, as though their pity were stimulated to
the point of reproduction. But this only indicates the way in which the psychic process is discharged in
hysterical imitation; the way in which a psychic act proceeds and the act itself are two different things.
The latter is slightly more complicated than one is apt to imagine the imitation of hysterical subjects to
be: it corresponds to an unconscious concluded process, as an example will show. The physician who
has a female patient with a particular kind of twitching, lodged in the company of other patients in the
same room of the hospital, is not surprised when some morning he learns that this peculiar hysterical
attack has found imitations. He simply says to himself: The others have seen her and have done
likewise: that is psychic infection. Yes, but psychic infection proceeds in somewhat the following
manner: As a rule, patients know more about one another than the physician knows about each of
them, and they are concerned about each other when the visit of the doctor is over. Some of them have
an attack to-day: soon it is known among the rest that a letter from home, a return of lovesickness or
the like, is the cause of it. Their sympathy is aroused, and the following syllogism, which does not
reach consciousness, is completed in them: "If it is possible to have this kind of an attack from such
causes, I too may have this kind of an attack, for I have the same reasons." If this were a cycle capable
of becoming conscious, it would perhaps express itself in fear of getting the same attack; but it takes
place in another psychic sphere, and, therefore, ends in the realization of the dreaded symptom.
Identification is therefore not a simple imitation, but a sympathy based upon the same etiological
claim; it expresses an "as though," and refers to some common quality which has remained in the
unconscious.
Identification is most often used in hysteria to express sexual community. An hysterical woman
identifies herself most readily—although not exclusively—with persons with whom she has had sexual
relations, or who have sexual intercourse with the same persons as herself. Language takes such a
conception into consideration: two lovers are "one." In the hysterical phantasy, as well as in the dream,
it is sufficient for the identification if one thinks of sexual relations, whether or not they become real.
The patient, then, only follows the rules of the hysterical thought processes when she gives expression
to her jealousy of her friend (which, moreover, she herself admits to be unjustified, in that she puts
herself in her place and identifies herself with her by creating a symptom—the denied wish). I might
further clarify the process specifically as follows: She puts herself in the place of her friend in the
dream, because her friend has taken her own place relation to her husband, and because she would like
to take her friend's place in the esteem of her husband 2.
The contradiction to my theory of dreams in the case of another female patient, the most witty among
all my dreamers, was solved in a simpler manner, although according to the scheme that the non-
fulfillment of one wish signifies the fulfillment of another. I had one day explained to her that the
dream is a wish of fulfillment. The next day she brought me a dream to the effect that she was
traveling with her mother-in-law to their common summer resort. Now I knew that she had struggled
violently against spending the summer in the neighborhood of her mother-in-law. I also knew that she
had luckily avoided her mother-in-law by renting an estate in a far-distant country resort. Now
the dream reversed this wished-for solution; was not this in the flattest contradiction to my theory of
wish-fulfillment in the dream? Certainly, it was only necessary to draw the inferences from this dream
in order to get at its interpretation. According to this dream, I was in the wrong. It was thus her wish
that I should be in the wrong, and this wish the dream showed her as fulfilled. But the wish that I
should be in the wrong, which was fulfilled in the theme of the country home, referred to a more
serious matter. At that time I had made up my mind, from the material furnished by her analysis, that
something of significance for her illness must have occurred at a certain time in her life. She had
denied it because it was not present in her memory. We soon came to see that I was in the right. Her
wish that I should be in the wrong, which is transformed into the dream, thus corresponded to the
justifiable wish that those things, which at the time had only been suspected, had never occurred at all.
Without an analysis, and merely by means of an assumption, I took the liberty of interpreting a little
occurrence in the case of a friend, who had been my colleague through the eight classes of the
Gymnasium. He once heard a lecture of mine delivered to a small assemblage, on the novel subject of
the dream as the fulfillment of a wish. He went home, dreamt that he had lost all his suits—he was a
lawyer—and then complained to me about it. I took refuge in the evasion: "One can't win all one's
suits," but I thought to myself: "If for eight years I sat as Primus on the first bench, while he moved
around somewhere in the middle of the class, may he not naturally have had a wish from his boyhood
days that I, too, might for once completely disgrace myself?"
In the same way another dream of a more gloomy character was offered me by a female patient as a
contradiction to my theory of the wish-dream. The patient, a young girl, began as follows: "You
remember that my sister has now only one boy, Charles: she lost the elder one, Otto, while I was still
at her house. Otto was my favorite; it was I who really brought him up. I like the other little fellow,
too, but of course not nearly as much as the dead one. Now I dreamt last night that I saw Charles lying
dead before me. He was lying in his little coffin, his hands folded: there were candles all about, and,
in short, it was just like the time of little Otto's death, which shocked me so profoundly. Now tell me,
what does this mean? You know me: am I really bad enough to wish my sister to lose the only child
she has left? Or does the dream mean that I wish Charles to be dead rather than Otto, whom I like so
much better?"
I assured her that this interpretation was impossible. After some reflection I was able to give her the
interpretation of the dream, which I subsequently made her confirm.
Having become an orphan at an early age, the girl had been brought up in the house of a much older
sister, and had met among the friends and visitors who came to the house, a man who made a lasting
impression upon her heart. It looked for a time as though these barely expressed relations were to end
in marriage, but this happy culmination was frustrated by the sister, whose motives have never found a
complete explanation. After the break, the man who was loved by our patient avoided the house: she
herself became independent some time after little Otto's death, to whom her affection had now turned.
But she did not succeed in freeing herself from the inclination for her sister's friend in which she had
become involved. Her pride commanded her to avoid him; but it was impossible for her to transfer her
love to the other suitors who presented themselves in order. Whenever the man whom she loved, who
was a member of the literary profession, announced a lecture anywhere, she was sure to be found in
the audience; she also seized every other opportunity to see him from a distance unobserved by him. I
remembered that on the day before she had told me that the Professor was going to a certain concert,
and that she was also going there, in order to enjoy the sight of him. This was on the day of the dream;
and the concert was to take place on the day on which she told me the dream. I could now easily see
the correct interpretation, and I asked her whether she could think of any event which had happened
after the death of little Otto. She answered immediately: "Certainly; at that time the Professor returned
after a long absence, and I saw him once more beside the coffin of little Otto." It was exactly as I had
expected. I interpreted the dream in the following manner: "If now the other boy were to die, the same
thing would be repeated. You would spend the day with your sister, the Professor would surely come
in order to offer condolence, and you would see him again under the same circumstances as at that
time. The dream signifies nothing but this wish of yours to see him again, against which you are
fighting inwardly. I know that you are carrying the ticket for to-day's concert in your bag. Your dream
is a dream of impatience; it has anticipated the meeting which is to take place to-day by several hours."
In order to disguise her wish she had obviously selected a situation in which wishes of that sort are
commonly suppressed—a situation which is so filled with sorrow that love is not thought of. And yet,
it is very easily probable that even in the actual situation at the bier of the second, more dearly loved
boy, which the dream copied faithfully, she had not been able to suppress her feelings of affection for
the visitor whom she had missed for so long a time.
A different explanation was found in the case of a similar dream of another female patient, who was
distinguished in her earlier years by her quick wit and her cheerful demeanors and who still showed
these qualities at least in the notion, which occurred to her in the course of treatment. In connection
with a longer dream, it seemed to this lady that she saw her fifteen-year-old daughter lying dead before
her in a box. She was strongly inclined to convert this dream-image into an objection to the theory of
wish-fulfillment, but herself suspected that the detail of the box must lead to a different conception of
the dream.3 In the course of the analysis it occurred to her that on the evening before, the conversation
of the company had turned upon the English word "box," and upon the numerous translations of it into
German, such as box, theater box, chest, box on the ear, &c. From other components of the same
dream it is now possible to add that the lady had guessed the relationship between the English word
"box" and the German Büchse, and had then been haunted by the memory that Büchse (as well as
"box") is used in vulgar speech to designate the female genital organ. It was therefore possible, making
a certain allowance for her notions on the subject of topographical anatomy, to assume that the child in
the box signified a child in the womb of the mother. At this stage of the explanation she no longer
denied that the picture of the dream really corresponded to one of her wishes. Like so many other
young women, she was by no means happy when she became pregnant, and admitted to me more than
once the wish that her child might die before its birth; in a fit of anger following a violent scene with
her husband she had even struck her abdomen with her fists in order to hit the child within. The dead
child was, therefore, really the fulfillment of a wish, but a wish which had been put aside for fifteen
years, and it is not surprising that the fulfillment of the wish was no longer recognized after so long an
interval. For there had been many changes meanwhile.
The group of dreams to which the two last mentioned belong, having as content the death of beloved
relatives, will be considered again under the head of "Typical Dreams." I shall there be able to show by
new examples that in spite of their undesirable content, all these dreams must be interpreted as wish-
fulfillments. For the following dream, which again was told me in order to deter me from a hasty
generalization of the theory of wishing in dreams, I am indebted, not to a patient, but to an intelligent
jurist of my acquaintance. "I dream," my informant tells me, "that I am walking in front of my house
with a lady on my arm. Here a closed wagon is waiting, a gentleman steps up to me, gives his
authority as an agent of the police, and demands that I should follow him. I only ask for time in which
to arrange my affairs. Can you possibly suppose this is a wish of mine to be arrested?" "Of course
not," I must admit. "Do you happen to know upon what charge you were arrested?" "Yes; I believe for
infanticide." "Infanticide? But you know that only a mother can commit this crime upon her newly
born child?" "That is true."4 "And under what circumstances did you dream; what happened on the
evening before?" "I would rather not tell you that; it is a delicate matter." "But I must have it,
otherwise we must forgo the interpretation of the dream." "Well, then, I will tell you. I spent the night,
not at home, but at the house of a lady who means very much to me. When we awoke in the morning,
something again passed between us. Then I went to sleep again, and dreamt what I have told you."
"The woman is married?" "Yes." "And you do not wish her to conceive a child?" "No; that might
betray us." "Then you do not practice normal coitus?" "I take the precaution to withdraw before
ejaculation." "Am I permitted to assume that you did this trick several times during the night, and that
in the morning you were not quite sure whether you had succeeded?" "That might be the case." "Then
your dream is the fulfillment of a wish. By means of it you secure the assurance that you have not
begotten a child, or, what amounts to the same thing, that you have killed a child. I can easily
demonstrate the connecting links. Do you remember, a few days ago we were talking about the distress
of matrimony (Ehenot), and about the inconsistency of permitting the practice of coitus as long as no
impregnation takes place, while every delinquency after the ovum and the semen meet and a fœtus is
formed is punished as a crime? In connection with this, we also recalled the mediæval controversy
about the moment of time at which the soul is really lodged in the fœtus, since the concept of murder
becomes admissible only from that point on. Doubtless you also know the gruesome poem by Lenau,
which puts infanticide and the prevention of children on the same plane." "Strangely enough, I had
happened to think of Lenau during the afternoon." "Another echo of your dream. And now I shall
demonstrate to you another subordinate wish-fulfillment in your dream. You walk in front of your
house with the lady on your arm. So you take her home, instead of spending the night at her house, as
you do in actuality. The fact that the wish-fulfillment, which is the essence of the dream, disguises
itself in such an unpleasant form, has perhaps more than one reason. From my essay on the etiology of
anxiety neuroses, you will see that I note interrupted coitus as one of the factors which cause the
development of neurotic fear. It would be consistent with this that if after repeated cohabitation of the
kind mentioned you should be left in an uncomfortable mood, which now becomes an element in the
composition of your dream. You also make use of this unpleasant state of mind to conceal the wish-
fulfillment. Furthermore, the mention of infanticide has not yet been explained. Why does this crime,
which is peculiar to females, occur to you?" "I shall confess to you that I was involved in such an affair
years ago. Through my fault a girl tried to protect herself from the consequences of a liaison with me
by securing an abortion. I had nothing to do with carrying out the plan, but I was naturally for a long
time worried lest the affair might be discovered." "I understand; this recollection furnished a second
reason why the supposition that you had done your trick badly must have been painful to you."
A young physician, who had heard this dream of my colleague when it was told, must have felt
implicated by it, for he hastened to imitate it in a dream of his own, applying its mode of thinking to
another subject. The day before he had handed in a declaration of his income, which was perfectly
honest, because he had little to declare. He dreamt that an acquaintance of his came from a meeting of
the tax commission and informed him that all the other declarations of income had passed uncontested,
but that his own had awakened general suspicion, and that he would be punished with a heavy fine.
The dream is a poorly-concealed fulfillment of the wish to be known as a physician with a large
income. It likewise recalls the story of the young girl who was advised against accepting her suitor
because he was a man of quick temper who would surely treat her to blows after they were married.
The answer of the girl was: "I wish he would strike me!" Her wish to be married is so strong that she
takes into the bargain the discomfort which is said to be connected with matrimony, and which is
predicted for her, and even raises it to a wish.
If I group the very frequently occurring dreams of this sort, which seem flatly to contradict my theory,
in that they contain the denial of a wish or some occurrence decidedly unwished for, under the head of
"counter wish-dreams," I observe that they may all be referred to two principles, of which one has not
yet been mentioned, although it plays a large part in the dreams of human beings. One of the motives
inspiring these dreams is the wish that I should appear in the wrong. These dreams regularly occur in
the course of my treatment if the patient shows a resistance against me, and I can count with a large
degree of certainty upon causing such a dream after I have once explained to the patient my theory that
the dream is a wish-fulfillment.5 I may even expect this to be the case in a dream merely in order to
fulfill the wish that I may appear in the wrong. The last dream which I shall tell from those occurring
in the course of treatment again shows this very thing. A young girl who has struggled hard to continue
my treatment, against the will of her relatives and the authorities whom she had consulted, dreams as
follows: She is forbidden at home to come to me any more. She then reminds me of the promise I made
her to treat her for nothing if necessary, and I say to her: "I can show no consideration in money
matters."
It is not at all easy in this case to demonstrate the fulfillment of a wish, but in all cases of this kind
there is a second problem, the solution of which helps also to solve the first. Where does she get the
words which she puts into my mouth? Of course I have never told her anything like that, but one of her
brothers, the very one who has the greatest influence over her, has been kind enough to make this
remark about me. It is then the purpose of the dream that this brother should remain in the right; and
she does not try to justify this brother merely in the dream; it is her purpose in life and the motive for
her being ill.
The other motive for counter wish-dreams is so clear that there is danger of overlooking it, as for some
time happened in my own case. In the sexual make-up of many people there is a masochistic
component, which has arisen through the conversion of the aggressive, sadistic component into its
opposite. Such people are called "ideal" masochists, if they seek pleasure not in the bodily pain which
may be inflicted upon them, but in humiliation and in chastisement of the soul. It is obvious that such
persons can have counter wish-dreams and disagreeable dreams, which, however, for them are nothing
but wish-fulfillment, affording satisfaction for their masochistic inclinations. Here is such a dream. A
young man, who has in earlier years tormented his elder brother, towards whom he was homosexually
inclined, but who had undergone a complete change of character, has the following dream, which
consists of three parts: (1) He is "insulted" by his brother. (2) Two adults are caressing each other
with homosexual intentions. (3) His brother has sold the enterprise whose management the young man
reserved for his own future. He awakens from the last-mentioned dream with the most unpleasant
feelings, and yet it is a masochistic wish-dream, which might be translated: It would serve me quite
right if my brother were to make that sale against my interest, as a punishment for all the torments
which he has suffered at my hands.
I hope that the above discussion and examples will suffice—until further objection can be raised—to
make it seem credible that even dreams with a painful content are to be analyzed as the fulfillments of
wishes. Nor will it seem a matter of chance that in the course of interpretation one always happens
upon subjects of which one does not like to speak or think. The disagreeable sensation which such
dreams arouse is simply identical with the antipathy which endeavors—usually with success—to
restrain us from the treatment or discussion of such subjects, and which must be overcome by all of us,
if, in spite of its unpleasantness, we find it necessary to take the matter in hand. But this disagreeable
sensation, which occurs also in dreams, does not preclude the existence of a wish; every one has
wishes which he would not like to tell to others, which he does not want to admit even to himself. We
are, on other grounds, justified in connecting the disagreeable character of all these dreams with the
fact of dream disfigurement, and in concluding that these dreams are distorted, and that the wish-
fulfillment in them is disguised until recognition is impossible for no other reason than that a
repugnance, a will to suppress, exists in relation to the subject-matter of the dream or in relation to the
wish which the dream creates. Dream disfigurement, then, turns out in reality to be an act of the
censor. We shall take into consideration everything which the analysis of disagreeable dreams has
brought to light if we reword our formula as follows: The dream is the (disguised) fulfillment of a
(suppressed, repressed) wish.
Now there still remain as a particular species of dreams with painful content, dreams of anxiety, the
inclusion of which under dreams of wishing will find least acceptance with the uninitiated. But I can
settle the problem of anxiety dreams in very short order; for what they may reveal is not a new aspect
of the dream problem; it is a question in their case of understanding neurotic anxiety in general. The
fear which we experience in the dream is only seemingly explained by the dream content. If we subject
the content of the dream to analysis, we become aware that the dream fear is no more justified by the
dream content than the fear in a phobia is justified by the idea upon which the phobia depends. For
example, it is true that it is possible to fall out of a window, and that some care must be exercised
when one is near a window, but it is inexplicable why the anxiety in the corresponding phobia is so
great, and why it follows its victims toan extent so much greater than is warranted by its origin. The
same explanation, then, which applies to the phobia applies also to the dream of anxiety. In both cases
the anxiety is only superficially attached to the idea which accompanies it and comes from another
source.
On account of the intimate relation of dream fear to neurotic fear, discussion of the former obliges me
to refer to the latter. In a little essay on "The Anxiety Neurosis," 6 I maintained that neurotic fear has its
origin in the sexual life, and corresponds to a libido which has been turned away from its object and
has not succeeded in being applied. From this formula, which has since proved its validity more and
more clearly, we may deduce the conclusion that the content of anxiety dreams is of a sexual nature,
the libido belonging to which content has been transformed into fear.
Footnote 1: To sit for the painter. Goethe: "And if he has no backside, how can the nobleman sit?"
Footnote 2: I myself regret the introduction of such passages from the psychopathology of hysteria, which, because
of their fragmentary representation and of being torn from all connection with the subject, cannot have a very
enlightening influence. If these passages are capable of throwing light upon the intimate relations between the
dream and the psychoneuroses, they have served the purpose for which I have taken them up.
Footnote 3: Something like the smoked salmon in the dream of the deferred supper.
Footnote 4: It often happens that a dream is told incompletely, and that a recollection of the omitted portions appear
only in the course of the analysis. These portions subsequently fitted in, regularly furnish the key to the
interpretation. Cf. below, about forgetting in dreams.
Footnote 5: Similar "counter wish-dreams" have been repeatedly reported to me within the last few years by my
pupils who thus reacted to their first encounter with the "wish theory of the dream."
Footnote 6: See Selected Papers on Hysteria and other Psychoneuroses, p. 133, translated by A.A. Brill, Journal of
Nervous and Mental Diseases, Monograph Series.
V
SEX IN DREAMS
The more one is occupied with the solution of dreams, the more willing one must become to
acknowledge that the majority of the dreams of adults treat of sexual material and give expression to
erotic wishes. Only one who really analyzes dreams, that is to say, who pushes forward from their
manifest content to the latent dream thoughts, can form an opinion on this subject—never the person
who is satisfied with registering the manifest content (as, for example, Näcke in his works on sexual
dreams). Let us recognize at once that this fact is not to be wondered at, but that it is in complete
harmony with the fundamental assumptions of dream explanation. No other impulse has had to
undergo so much suppression from the time of childhood as the sex impulse in its numerous
components, from no other impulse have survived so many and such intense unconscious wishes,
which now act in the sleeping state in such a manner as to produce dreams. In dream interpretation,
this significance of sexual complexes must never be forgotten, nor must they, of course, be
exaggerated to the point of being considered exclusive.
Of many dreams it can be ascertained by a careful interpretation that they are even to be taken
bisexually, inasmuch as they result in an irrefutable secondary interpretation in which they realize
homosexual feelings—that is, feelings that are common to the normal sexual activity of the dreaming
person. But that all dreams are to be interpreted bisexually, seems to me to be a generalization as
indemonstrable as it is improbable, which I should not like to support. Above all I should not know
how to dispose of the apparent fact that there are many dreams satisfying other than—in the widest
sense—erotic needs, as dreams of hunger, thirst, convenience, &c. Likewise the similar assertions
"that behind every dream one finds the death sentence" (Stekel), and that every dream shows "a
continuation from the feminine to the masculine line" (Adler), seem to me to proceed far beyond what
is admissible in the interpretation of dreams.
We have already asserted elsewhere that dreams which are conspicuously innocent invariably embody
coarse erotic wishes, and we might confirm this by means of numerous fresh examples. But many
dreams which appear indifferent, and which would never be suspected of any particular
significance, can be traced back, after analysis, to unmistakably sexual wish-feelings, which are often
of an unexpected nature. For example, who would suspect a sexual wish in the following dream until
the interpretation had been worked out? The dreamer relates: Between two stately palaces stands a
little house, receding somewhat, whose doors are closed. My wife leads me a little way along the street
up to the little house, and pushes in the door, and then I slip quickly and easily into the interior of a
courtyard that slants obliquely upwards.
Any one who has had experience in the translating of dreams will, of course, immediately perceive that
penetrating into narrow spaces, and opening locked doors, belong to the commonest sexual symbolism,
and will easily find in this dream a representation of attempted coition from behind (between the two
stately buttocks of the female body). The narrow slanting passage is of course the vagina; the
assistance attributed to the wife of the dreamer requires the interpretation that in reality it is only
consideration for the wife which is responsible for the detention from such an attempt. Moreover,
inquiry shows that on the previous day a young girl had entered the household of the dreamer who had
pleased him, and who had given him the impression that she would not be altogether opposed to an
approach of this sort. The little house between the two palaces is taken from a reminiscence of the
Hradschin in Prague, and thus points again to the girl who is a native of that city.
If with my patients I emphasize the frequency of the Oedipus dream—of having sexual intercourse
with one's mother—I get the answer: "I cannot remember such a dream." Immediately afterwards,
however, there arises the recollection of another disguised and indifferent dream, which has been
dreamed repeatedly by the patient, and the analysis shows it to be a dream of this same content—that
is, another Oedipus dream. I can assure the reader that veiled dreams of sexual intercourse with the
mother are a great deal more frequent than open ones to the same effect.
There are dreams about landscapes and localities in which emphasis is always laid upon the assurance:
"I have been there before." In this case the locality is always the genital organ of the mother; it can
indeed be asserted with such certainty of no other locality that one "has been there before."
A large number of dreams, often full of fear, which are concerned with passing through narrow spaces
or with staying, in the water, are based upon fancies about the embryonic life, about the sojourn in the
mother's womb, and about the act of birth. The following is the dream of a young man who in his
fancy has already while in embryo taken advantage of his opportunity to spy upon an act of coition
between his parents.
"He is in a deep shaft, in which there is a window, as in the Semmering Tunnel. At first he sees an
empty landscape through this window, and then he composes a picture into it, which is immediately at
hand and which fills out the empty space. The picture represents a field which is being thoroughly
harrowed by an implement, and the delightful air, the accompanying idea of hard work, and the
bluish-black clods of earth make a pleasant impression. He then goes on and sees a primary school
opened ... and he is surprised that so much attention is devoted in it to the sexual feelings of the child,
which makes him think of me."
Here is a pretty water-dream of a female patient, which was turned to extraordinary account in the
course of treatment.
At her summer resort at the ... Lake, she hurls herself into the dark water at a place where the pale
moon is reflected in the water.
Dreams of this sort are parturition dreams; their interpretation is accomplished by reversing the fact
reported in the manifest dream content; thus, instead of "throwing one's self into the water,"
read "coming out of the water," that is, "being born." The place from which one is born is recognized if
one thinks of the bad sense of the French "la lune." The pale moon thus becomes the white "bottom"
(Popo), which the child soon recognizes as the place from which it came. Now what can be the
meaning of the patient's wishing to be born at her summer resort? I asked the dreamer this, and she
answered without hesitation: "Hasn't the treatment made me as though I were born again?" Thus the
dream becomes an invitation to continue the cure at this summer resort, that is, to visit her there;
perhaps it also contains a very bashful allusion to the wish to become a mother herself. 1
Another dream of parturition, with its interpretation, I take from the work of E. Jones. "She stood at
the seashore watching a small boy, who seemed to be hers, wading into the water. This he did till the
water covered him, and she could only see his head bobbing up and down near the surface. The scene
then changed to the crowded hall of a hotel. Her husband left her, and she 'entered into conversation
with' a stranger." The second half of the dream was discovered in the analysis to represent a flight
from her husband, and the entering into intimate relations with a third person, behind whom was
plainly indicated Mr. X.'s brother mentioned in a former dream. The first part of the dream was a fairly
evident birth phantasy. In dreams as in mythology, the delivery of a child from the uterine waters is
commonly presented by distortion as the entry of the child into water; among many others, the births
of Adonis, Osiris, Moses, and Bacchus are well-known illustrations of this. The bobbing up and down
of the head in the water at once recalled to the patient the sensation of quickening she had experienced
in her only pregnancy. Thinking of the boy going into the water induced a reverie in which she saw
herself taking him out of the water, carrying him into the nursery, washing him and dressing him, and
installing him in her household.
The second half of the dream, therefore, represents thoughts concerning the elopement, which
belonged to the first half of the underlying latent content; the first half of the dream corresponded with
the second half of the latent content, the birth phantasy. Besides this inversion in order,
further inversions took place in each half of the dream. In the first half the child entered the water, and
then his head bobbed; in the underlying dream thoughts first the quickening occurred, and then the
child left the water (a double inversion). In the second half her husband left her; in the dream thoughts
she left her husband.
Another parturition dream is related by Abraham of a young woman looking forward to her first
confinement. From a place in the floor of the house a subterranean canal leads directly into the water
(parturition path, amniotic liquor). She lifts up a trap in the floor, and there immediately appears a
creature dressed in a brownish fur, which almost resembles a seal. This creature changes into the
younger brother of the dreamer, to whom she has always stood in maternal relationship.
Dreams of "saving" are connected with parturition dreams. To save, especially to save from the water,
is equivalent to giving birth when dreamed by a woman; this sense is, however, modified when the
dreamer is a man.
Robbers, burglars at night, and ghosts, of which we are afraid before going to bed, and which
occasionally even disturb our sleep, originate in one and the same childish reminiscence. They are
the nightly visitors who have awakened the child to set it on the chamber so that it may not wet the
bed, or have lifted the cover in order to see clearly how the child is holding its hands while sleeping. I
have been able to induce an exact recollection of the nocturnal visitor in the analysis of some of these
anxiety dreams. The robbers were always the father, the ghosts more probably corresponded to
feminine persons with white night-gowns.
When one has become familiar with the abundant use of symbolism for the representation of sexual
material in dreams, one naturally raises the question whether there are not many of these symbols
which appear once and for all with a firmly established significance like the signs in stenography; and
one is tempted to compile a new dream-book according to the cipher method. In this connection it may
be remarked that this symbolism does not belong peculiarly to the dream, but rather to unconscious
thinking, particularly that of the masses, and it is to be found in greater perfection in the folklore, in the
myths, legends, and manners of speech, in the proverbial sayings, and in the current witticisms of a
nation than in its dreams.
The dream takes advantage of this symbolism in order to give a disguised representation to its
latent thoughts. Among the symbols which are used in this manner there are of course many which
regularly, or almost regularly, mean the same thing. Only it is necessary to keep in mind the curious
plasticity of psychic material. Now and then a symbol in the dream content may have to be interpreted
not symbolically, but according to its real meaning; at another time the dreamer, owing to a peculiar
set of recollections, may create for himself the right to use anything whatever as a sexual symbol,
though it is not ordinarily used in that way. Nor are the most frequently used sexual symbols
unambiguous every time.
After these limitations and reservations I may call attention to the following: Emperor and Empress
(King and Queen) in most cases really represent the parents of the dreamer; the dreamer himself or
herself is the prince or princess. All elongated objects, sticks, tree-trunks, and umbrellas (on account of
the stretching-up which might be compared to an erection! all elongated and sharp weapons, knives,
daggers, and pikes, are intended to represent the male member. A frequent, not very intelligible,
symbol for the same is a nail-file (on account of the rubbing and scraping?). Little cases, boxes,
caskets, closets, and stoves correspond to the female part. The symbolism of lock and key has been
very gracefully employed by Uhland in his song about the "Grafen Eberstein," to make a common
smutty joke. The dream of walking through a row of rooms is a brothel or harem dream. Staircases,
ladders, and flights of stairs, or climbing on these, either upwards or downwards, are symbolic
representations of the sexual act. Smooth walls over which one is climbing, façades of houses upon
which one is letting oneself down, frequently under great anxiety, correspond to the erect human body,
and probably repeat in the dream reminiscences of the upward climbing of little children on their
parents or foster parents. "Smooth" walls are men. Often in a dream of anxiety one is holding on firmly
to some projection from a house. Tables, set tables, and boards are women, perhaps on account of the
opposition which does away with the bodily contours. Since "bed and board" (mensa et thorus)
constitute marriage, the former are often put for the latter in the dream, and as far as practicable the
sexual presentation complex is transposed to the eating complex. Of articles of dress the woman's hat
may frequently be definitely interpreted as the male genital. In dreams of men one often finds the
cravat as a symbol for the penis; this indeed is not only because cravats hang down long, and are
characteristic of the man, but also because one can select them at pleasure, a freedom which is
prohibited by nature in the original of the symbol. Persons who make use of this symbol in the dream
are very extravagant with cravats, and possess regular collections of them. All complicated machines
and apparatus in dream are very probably genitals, in the description of which dream symbolism shows
itself to be as tireless as the activity of wit. Likewise many landscapes in dreams, especially with
bridges or with wooded mountains, can be readily recognized as descriptions of the genitals. Finally
where one finds incomprehensible neologisms one may think of combinations made up of components
having a sexual significance. Children also in the dream often signify the genitals, as men and women
are in the habit of fondly referring to their genital organ as their "little one." As a very recent symbol of
the male genital may be mentioned the flying machine, utilization of which is justified by its relation to
flying as well as occasionally by its form. To play with a little child or to beat a little one is often the
dream's representation of onanism. A number of other symbols, in part not sufficiently verified are
given by Stekel, who illustrates them with examples. Right and left, according to him, are to be
conceived in the dream in an ethical sense. "The right way always signifies the road to righteousness,
the left the one to crime. Thus the left may signify homosexuality, incest, and perversion, while the
right signifies marriage, relations with a prostitute, &c. The meaning is always determined by the
individual moral view-point of the dreamer." Relatives in the dream generally play the rôle of genitals.
Not to be able to catch up with a wagon is interpreted by Stekel as regret not to be able to come up to a
difference in age. Baggage with which one travels is the burden of sin by which one is oppressed. Also
numbers, which frequently occur in the dream, are assigned by Stekel a fixed symbolical meaning, but
these interpretations seem neither sufficiently verified nor of general validity, although the
interpretation in individual cases can generally be recognized as probable. In a recently published book
by W. Stekel, Die Sprache des Traumes, which I was unable to utilize, there is a list of the most
common sexual symbols, the object of which is to prove that all sexual symbols can be bisexually
used. He states: "Is there a symbol which (if in any way permitted by the phantasy) may not be used
simultaneously in the masculine and the feminine sense!" To be sure the clause in parentheses takes
away much of the absoluteness of this assertion, for this is not at all permitted bythe phantasy. I do not,
however, think it superfluous to state that in my experience Stekel's general statement has to give way
to the recognition of a greater manifoldness. Besides those symbols, which are just as frequent for the
male as for the female genitals, there are others which preponderately, or almost exclusively, designate
one of the sexes, and there are still others of which only the male or only the female signification is
known. To use long, firm objects and weapons as symbols of the female genitals, or hollow objects
(chests, pouches, &c.), as symbols of the male genitals, is indeed not allowed by the fancy.
It is true that the tendency of the dream and the unconscious fancy to utilize the sexual symbol
bisexually betrays an archaic trend, for in childhood a difference in the genitals is unknown, and the
same genitals are attributed to both sexes.
These very incomplete suggestions may suffice to stimulate others to make a more careful collection.
I shall now add a few examples of the application of such symbolisms in dreams, which will serve to
show how impossible it becomes to interpret a dream without taking into account the symbolism of
dreams, and how imperatively it obtrudes itself in many cases.
1. The hat as a symbol of the man (of the male genital): (a fragment from the dream of a young woman
who suffered from agoraphobia on account of a fear of temptation).
"I am walking in the street in summer, I wear a straw hat of peculiar shape, the middle piece of which
is bent upwards and the side pieces of which hang downwards (the description became here
obstructed), and in such a fashion that one is lower than the other. I am cheerful and in a confidential
mood, and as I pass a troop of young officers I think to myself: None of you can have any designs
upon me."
As she could produce no associations to the hat, I said to her: "The hat is really a male genital, with its
raised middle piece and the two downward hanging side pieces." I intentionally refrained from
interpreting those details concerning the unequal downward hanging of the two side pieces, although
just such individualities in the determinations lead the way to the interpretation. I continued by saying
that if she only had a man with such a virile genital she would not have to fear the officers—that is, she
would have nothing to wish from them, for she is mainly kept from going without protection and
company by her fancies of temptation. This last explanation of her fear I had already been able to give
her repeatedly on the basis of other material.
It is quite remarkable how the dreamer behaved after this interpretation. She withdrew her description
of the hat, and claimed not to have said that the two side pieces were hanging downwards. I was,
however, too sure of what I had heard to allow myself to be misled, and I persisted in it. She was quiet
for a while, and then found the courage to ask why it was that one of her husband's testicles was lower
than the other, and whether it was the same in all men. With this the peculiar detail of the hat was
explained, and the whole interpretation was accepted by her. The hat symbol was familiar to me long
before the patient related this dream. From other but less transparent cases I believe that the hat may
also be taken as a female genital.
2. The little one as the genital—to be run over as a symbol of sexual intercourse (another dream of the
same agoraphobic patient).
"Her mother sends away her little daughter so that she must go alone. She rides with her mother to the
railroad and sees her little one walking directly upon the tracks, so that she cannot avoid being run
over. She hears the bones crackle. (From this she experiences a feeling of discomfort but no real
horror.) She then looks out through the car window to see whether the parts cannot be seen behind. She
then reproaches her mother for allowing the little one to go out alone." Analysis. It is not an easy
matter to give here a complete interpretation of the dream. It forms part of a cycle of dreams, and can
be fully understood only in connection with the others. For it is not easy to get the necessary material
sufficiently isolated to prove the symbolism. The patient at first finds that the railroad journey is to be
interpreted historically as an allusion to a departure from a sanatorium for nervous diseases, with the
superintendent of which she naturally was in love. Her mother took her away from this place, and the
physician came to the railroad station and handed her a bouquet of flowers on leaving; she felt
uncomfortable because her mother witnessed this homage. Here the mother, therefore, appears as a
disturber of her love affairs, which is the rôle actually played by this strict woman during her
daughter's girlhood. The next thought referred to the sentence: "She then looks to see whether the parts
can be seen behind." In the dream façade one would naturally be compelled to think of the parts of the
little daughter run over and ground up. The thought, however, turns in quite a different direction. She
recalls that she once saw her father in the bath-room naked from behind; she then begins to talk about
the sex differentiation, and asserts that in the man the genitals can be seen from behind, but in the
woman they cannot. In this connection she now herself offers the interpretation that the little one is the
genital, her little one (she has a four-year-old daughter) her own genital. She reproaches her mother for
wanting her to live as though she had no genital, and recognizes this reproach in the introductory
sentence of the dream; the mother sends away her little one so that she must go alone. In her phantasy
going alone on the street signifies to have no man and no sexual relations (coire = to go together), and
this she does not like. According to all her statements she really suffered as a girl on account of the
jealousy of her mother, because she showed a preference for her father.
The "little one" has been noted as a symbol for the male or the female genitals by Stekel, who can refer
in this connection to a very widespread usage of language.
The deeper interpretation of this dream depends upon another dream of the same night in which the
dreamer identifies herself with her brother. She was a "tomboy," and was always being told that she
should have been born a boy. This identification with the brother shows with special clearness that "the
little one" signifies the genital. The mother threatened him (her) with castration, which could only be
understood as a punishment for playing with the parts, and the identification, therefore, shows that she
herself had masturbated as a child, though this fact she now retained only in memory concerning her
brother. An early knowledge of the male genital which she later lost she must have acquired at that
time according to the assertions of this second dream. Moreover the second dream points to the
infantile sexual theory that girls originate from boys through castration. After I had told her of this
childish belief, she at once confirmed it with an anecdote in which the boy asks the girl: "Was it cut
off?" to which the girl replied, "No, it's always been so."
The sending away of the little one, of the genital, in the first dream therefore also refers to the
threatened castration. Finally she blames her mother for not having been born a boy.
That "being run over" symbolizes sexual intercourse would not be evident from this dream if we were
not sure of it from many other sources.
3. Representation of the genital by structures, stairways, and shafts. (Dream of a young man inhibited
by a father complex.)
"He is taking a walk with his father in a place which is surely the Prater, for the Rotunda may be seen
in front of which there is a small front structure to which is attached a captive balloon; the balloon,
however, seems quite collapsed. His father asks him what this is all for; he is surprised at it, but he
explains it to his father. They come into a court in which lies a large sheet of tin. His father wants to
pull off a big piece of this, but first looks around to see if any one is watching. He tells his father that
all he needs to do is to speak to the watchman, and then he can take without any further difficulty as
much as he wants to. From this court a stairway leads down into a shaft, the walls of which are softly
upholstered something like a leather pocketbook. At the end of this shaft there is a longer platform,
and then a new shaft begins...."
Analysis. This dream belongs to a type of patient which is not favorable from a therapeutic point of
view. They follow in the analysis without offering any resistances whatever up to a certain point, but
from that point on they remain almost inaccessible. This dream he almost analyzed himself. "The
Rotunda," he said, "is my genital, the captive balloon in front is my penis, about the weakness of
which I have worried." We must, however, interpret in greater detail; the Rotunda is the buttock which
is regularly associated by the child with the genital, the smaller front structure is the scrotum. In the
dream his father asks him what this is all for—that is, he asks him about the purpose and arrangement
of the genitals. It is quite evident that this state of affairs should be turned around, and that he should
be the questioner. As such a questioning on the side of the father has never taken place in reality, we
must conceive the dream thought as a wish, or take it conditionally, as follows: "If I had only asked my
father for sexual enlightenment." The continuation of this thought we shall soon find in another place.
The court in which the tin sheet is spread out is not to be conceived symbolically in the first instance,
but originates from his father's place of business. For discretionary reasons I have inserted the tin for
another material in which the father deals, without, however, changing anything in the verbal
expression of the dream. The dreamer had entered his father's business, and had taken a terrible dislike
to the questionable practices upon which profit mainly depends. Hence the continuation of the above
dream thought ("if I had only asked him") would be: "He would have deceived me just as he does his
customers." For the pulling off, which serves to represent commercial dishonesty, the dreamer himself
gives a second explanation—namely, onanism. This is not only entirely familiar to us, but agrees very
well with the fact that the secrecy of onanism is expressed by its opposite ("Why one can do it quite
openly"). It, moreover, agrees entirely with our expectations that the onanistic activity is again put off
on the father, just as was the questioning in the first scene of the dream. The shaft he at once interprets
as the vagina by referring to the soft upholstering of the walls. That the act of coition in the vagina is
described as a going down instead of in the usual way as a going up, I have also found true in other
instances2.
The details that at the end of the first shaft there is a longer platform and then a new shaft, he himself
explains biographically. He had for some time consorted with women sexually, but had then given it
up because of inhibitions and now hopes to be able to take it up again with the aid of the treatment.
The dream, however, becomes indistinct toward the end, and to the experienced interpreter it becomes
evident that in the second scene of the dream the influence of another subject has begun to assert itself;
in this his father's business and his dishonest practices signify the first vagina represented as a shaft so
that one might think of a reference to the mother.
4. The male genital symbolized by persons and the female by a landscape.
(Dream of a woman of the lower class, whose husband is a policeman, reported by B. Dattner.)
... Then some one broke into the house and anxiously called for a policeman. But he went with two
tramps by mutual consent into a church,3 to which led a great many stairs;4 behind the church there was
a mountain,5 on top of which a dense forest.6 The policeman was furnished with a helmet, a gorget, and
a cloak.7 The two vagrants, who went along with the policeman quite peaceably, had tied to their loins
sack-like aprons.8 A road led from the church to the mountain. This road was overgrown on each side
with grass and brushwood, which became thicker and thicker as it reached the height of the mountain,
where it spread out into quite a forest.
5. A stairway dream.
(Reported and interpreted by Otto Rank.)
For the following transparent pollution dream, I am indebted to the same colleague who furnished us
with the dental-irritation dream.
"I am running down the stairway in the stair-house after a little girl, whom I wish to punish because
she has done something to me. At the bottom of the stairs some one held the child for me. (A grown-up
woman?) I grasp it, but do not know whether I have hit it, for I suddenly find myself in the middle of
the stairway where I practice coitus with the child (in the air as it were). It is really no coitus, I only
rub my genital on her external genital, and in doing this I see it very distinctly, as distinctly as I see her
head which is lying sideways. During the sexual act I see hanging to the left and above me (also as if
in the air) two small pictures, landscapes, representing a house on a green. On the smaller one my
surname stood in the place where the painter's signature should be; it seemed to be intended for my
birthday present. A small sign hung in front of the pictures to the effect that cheaper pictures could
also be obtained. I then see myself very indistinctly lying in bed, just as I had seen myself at the foot of
the stairs, and I am awakened by a feeling of dampness which came from the pollution."
Interpretation. The dreamer had been in a book-store on the evening of the day of the dream, where,
while he was waiting, he examined some pictures which were exhibited, which represented motives
similar to the dream pictures. He stepped nearer to a small picture which particularly took his fancy in
order to see the name of the artist, which, however, was quite unknown to him.
Later in the same evening, in company, he heard about a Bohemian servant-girl who boasted that her
illegitimate child "was made on the stairs." The dreamer inquired about the details of this unusual
occurrence, and learned that the servant-girl went with her lover to the home of her parents, where
there was no opportunity for sexual relations, and that the excited man performed the act on the stairs.
In witty allusion to the mischievous expression used about wine-adulterers, the dreamer remarked,
"The child really grew on the cellar steps."
These experiences of the day, which are quite prominent in the dream content, were readily reproduced
by the dreamer. But he just as readily reproduced an old fragment of infantile recollection which was
also utilized by the dream. The stair-house was the house in which he had spent the greatest part of his
childhood, and in which he had first become acquainted with sexual problems. In this house he used,
among other things, to slide down the banister astride which caused him to become sexually excited. In
the dream he also comes down the stairs very rapidly—so rapidly that, according to his own distinct
assertions, he hardly touched the individual stairs, but rather "flew" or "slid down," as we used to say.
Upon reference to this infantile experience, the beginning of the dream seems to represent the factor of
sexual excitement. In the same house and in the adjacent residence the dreamer used to play
pugnacious games with the neighboring children, in which he satisfied himself just as he did in the
dream.
If one recalls from Freud's investigation of sexual symbolism 9 that in the dream stairs or climbing
stairs almost regularly symbolizes coitus, the dream becomes clear. Its motive power as well as its
effect, as is shown by the pollution, is of a purely libidinous nature. Sexual excitement became aroused
during the sleeping state (in the dream this is represented by the rapid running or sliding down the
stairs) and the sadistic thread in this is, on the basis of the pugnacious playing, indicated in the
pursuing and overcoming of the child. The libidinous excitement becomes enhanced and urges to
sexual action (represented in the dream by the grasping of the child and the conveyance of it to the
middle of the stairway). Up to this point the dream would be one of pure, sexual symbolism, and
obscure for the unpracticed dream interpreter. But this symbolic gratification, which would have
insured undisturbed sleep, was not sufficient for the powerful libidinous excitement. The excitement
leads to an orgasm, and thus the whole stairway symbolism is unmasked as a substitute for coitus.
Freud lays stress on the rhythmical character of both actions as one of the reasons for the sexual
utilization of the stairway symbolism, and this dream especially seems to corroborate this, for,
according to the express assertion of the dreamer, the rhythm of a sexual act was the most pronounced
feature in the whole dream.
Still another remark concerning the two pictures, which, aside from their real significance, also have
the value of "Weibsbilder" (literally woman-pictures, but idiomatically women). This is at once shown
by the fact that the dream deals with a big and a little picture, just as the dream content presents a big
(grown up) and a little girl. That cheap pictures could also be obtained points to the prostitution
complex, just as the dreamer's surname on the little picture and the thought that it was intended for his
birthday, point to the parent complex (to be born on the stairway—to be conceived in coitus).
The indistinct final scene, in which the dreamer sees himself on the staircase landing lying in bed and
feeling wet, seems to go back into childhood even beyond the infantile onanism, and manifestly has its
prototype in similarly pleasurable scenes of bed-wetting.
6. A modified stair-dream.
To one of my very nervous patients, who was an abstainer, whose fancy was fixed on his mother, and
who repeatedly dreamed of climbing stairs accompanied by his mother, I once remarked that moderate
masturbation would be less harmful to him than enforced abstinence. This influence provoked the
following dream:
"His piano teacher reproaches him for neglecting his piano-playing, and for not practicing
the Etudes of Moscheles and Clementi's Gradus ad Parnassum." In relation to this he remarked that
the Gradus is only a stairway, and that the piano itself is only a stairway as it has a scale.
It is correct to say that there is no series of associations which cannot be adapted to the representation
of sexual facts. I conclude with the dream of a chemist, a young man, who has been trying to give up
his habit of masturbation by replacing it with intercourse with women.
Preliminary statement.—On the day before the dream he had given a student instruction concerning
Grignard's reaction, in which magnesium is to be dissolved in absolutely pure ether under the catalytic
influence of iodine. Two days before, there had been an explosion in the course of the same reaction,
in which the investigator had burned his hand.
Dream I. He is to make phenylmagnesium-bromid; he sees the apparatus with particular clearness,
but he has substituted himself for the magnesium. He is now in a curious swaying attitude. He keeps
repeating to himself, "This is the right thing, it is working, my feet are beginning to dissolve and my
knees are getting soft." Then he reaches down and feels for his feet, and meanwhile (he does not know
how) he takes his legs out of the crucible, and then again he says to himself, "That cannot be.... Yes, it
must be so, it has been done correctly." Then he partially awakens, and repeats the dream to himself,
because he wants to tell it to me. He is distinctly afraid of the analysis of the dream. He is much
excited during this semi-sleeping state, and repeats continually, "Phenyl, phenyl."
II. He is in ....ing with his whole family; at half-past eleven. He is to be at the Schottenthor for a
rendezvous with a certain lady, but he does not wake up until half-past eleven. He says to himself, "It
is too late now; when you get there it will be half-past twelve." The next instant he sees the whole
family gathered about the table—his mother and the servant girl with the soup-tureen with particular
clearness. Then he says to himself, "Well, if we are eating already, I certainly can't get away."
Analysis: He feels sure that even the first dream contains a reference to the lady whom he is to meet at
the rendezvous (the dream was dreamed during the night before the expected meeting). The student to
whom he gave the instruction is a particularly unpleasant fellow; he had said to the chemist: "That isn't
right," because the magnesium was still unaffected, and the latter answered as though he did not care
anything about it: "It certainly isn't right." He himself must be this student; he is as indifferent towards
his analysis as the student is towards his synthesis; the He in the dream, however, who accomplishes
the operation, is myself. How unpleasant he must seem to me with his indifference towards the success
achieved!
Moreover, he is the material with which the analysis (synthesis) is made. For it is a question of the
success of the treatment. The legs in the dream recall an impression of the previous evening. He met a
lady at a dancing lesson whom he wished to conquer; he pressed her to him so closely that she once
cried out. After he had stopped pressing against her legs, he felt her firm responding pressure against
his lower thighs as far as just above his knees, at the place mentioned in the dream. In this situation,
then, the woman is the magnesium in the retort, which is at last working. He is feminine towards me,
as he is masculine towards the woman. If it will work with the woman, the treatment will also work.
Feeling and becoming aware of himself in the region of his knees refers to masturbation, and
corresponds to his fatigue of the previous day.... The rendezvous had actually been set for half-past
eleven. His wish to oversleep and to remain with his usual sexual objects (that is, with masturbation)
corresponds with his resistance.
Footnote 1: It is only of late that I have learned to value the significance of fancies and unconscious thoughts about
life in the womb. They contain the explanation of the curious fear felt by so many people of being buried alive, as
well as the profoundest unconscious reason for the belief in a life after death which represents nothing but a
projection into the future of this mysterious life before birth. The act of birth, moreover, is the first experience with
fear, and is thus the source and model of the emotion of fear.
Footnote 2: Cf. Zentralblatt für psychoanalyse, I.
Footnote 3: Or chapel—vagina.
Footnote 4: Symbol of coitus.
Footnote 5: Mons veneris.
Footnote 6: Crines pubis.
Footnote 7: Demons in cloaks and capucines are, according to the explanation of a man versed in the subject, of a
phallic nature.
Footnote 8: The two halves of the scrotum.
Footnote 9: See Zentralblatt für Psychoanalyse, vol. i., p. 2.
VI
THE WISH IN DREAMS
That the dream should be nothing but a wish-fulfillment surely seemed strange to us all—and that not
alone because of the contradictions offered by the anxiety dream.
After learning from the first analytical explanations that the dream conceals sense and psychic validity,
we could hardly expect so simple a determination of this sense. According to the correct but concise
definition of Aristotle, the dream is a continuation of thinking in sleep (in so far as one sleeps).
Considering that during the day our thoughts produce such a diversity of psychic acts—judgments,
conclusions, contradictions, expectations, intentions, &c.—why should our sleeping thoughts be forced
to confine themselves to the production of wishes? Are there not, on the contrary, many dreams that
present a different psychic act in dream form, e.g., a solicitude, and is not the very transparent father's
dream mentioned above of just such a nature? From the gleam of light falling into his eyes while
asleep the father draws the solicitous conclusion that a candle has been upset and may have set fire to
the corpse; he transforms this conclusion into a dream by investing it with a senseful situation enacted
in the present tense. What part is played in this dream by the wish-fulfillment, and which are we to
suspect—the predominance of the thought continued from, the waking state or of the thought incited
by the new sensory impression?
All these considerations are just, and force us to enter more deeply into the part played by the wish-
fulfillment in the dream, and into the significance of the waking thoughts continued in sleep.
It is in fact the wish-fulfillment that has already induced us to separate dreams into two groups. We
have found some dreams that were plainly wish-fulfillments; and others in which wish-fulfillment
could not be recognized, and was frequently concealed by every available means. In this latter class of
dreams we recognized the influence of the dream censor. The undisguised wish dreams were chiefly
found in children, yet fleeting open-hearted wish dreams seemed(I purposely emphasize this word) to
occur also in adults.
We may now ask whence the wish fulfilled in the dream originates. But to what opposition or to what
diversity do we refer this "whence"? I think it is to the opposition between conscious daily life and a
psychic activity remaining unconscious which can only make itself noticeable during the night. I thus
find a threefold possibility for the origin of a wish. Firstly, it may have been incited during the day,
and owing to external circumstances failed to find gratification, there is thus left for the night an
acknowledged but unfulfilled wish. Secondly, it may come to the surface during the day but be
rejected, leaving an unfulfilled but suppressed wish. Or, thirdly, it may have no relation to daily life,
and belong to those wishes that originate during the night from the suppression. If we now follow our
scheme of the psychic apparatus, we can localize a wish of the first order in the system Forec. We may
assume that a wish of the second order has been forced back from the Forec. system into the Unc.
system, where alone, if anywhere, it can maintain itself; while a wish-feeling of the third order we
consider altogether incapable of leaving the Unc. system. This brings up the question whether wishes
arising from these different sources possess the same value for the dream, and whether they have the
same power to incite a dream.
On reviewing the dreams which we have at our disposal for answering this question, we are at once
moved to add as a fourth source of the dream-wish the actual wish incitements arising during the night,
such as thirst and sexual desire. It then becomes evident that the source of the dream-wish does not
affect its capacity to incite a dream. That a wish suppressed during the day asserts itself in the dream
can be shown by a great many examples. I shall mention a very simple example of this class. A
somewhat sarcastic young lady, whose younger friend has become engaged to be married, is asked
throughout the day by her acquaintances whether she knows and what she thinks of the fiancé. She
answers with unqualified praise, thereby silencing her own judgment, as she would prefer to tell the
truth, namely, that he is an ordinary person. The following night she dreams that the same question is
put to her, and that she replies with the formula: "In case of subsequent orders it will suffice to
mention the number." Finally, we have learned from numerous analyses that the wish in all dreams
that have been subject to distortion has been derived from the unconscious, and has been unable to
come to perception in the waking state. Thus it would appear that all wishes are of the same value and
force for the dream formation.
I am at present unable to prove that the state of affairs is really different, but I am strongly inclined to
assume a more stringent determination of the dream-wish. Children's dreams leave no doubt that an
unfulfilled wish of the day may be the instigator of the dream. But we must not forget that it is, after
all, the wish of a child, that it is a wish-feeling of infantile strength only. I have a strong doubt whether
an unfulfilled wish from the day would suffice to create a dream in an adult. It would rather seem that
as we learn to control our impulses by intellectual activity, we more and more reject as vain the
formation or retention of such intense wishes as are natural to childhood. In this, indeed, there may be
individual variations; some retain the infantile type of psychic processes longer than others. The
differences are here the same as those found in the gradual decline of the originally distinct visual
imagination.
In general, however, I am of the opinion that unfulfilled wishes of the day are insufficient to produce a
dream in adults. I readily admit that the wish instigators originating in conscious like contribute
towards the incitement of dreams, but that is probably all. The dream would not originate if the
foreconscious wish were not reinforced from another source.
That source is the unconscious. I believe that the conscious wish is a dream inciter only if it succeeds
in arousing a similar unconscious wish which reinforces it. Following the suggestions obtained
through the psychoanalysis of the neuroses, I believe that these unconscious wishes are always active
and ready for expression whenever they find an opportunity to unite themselves with an emotion from
conscious life, and that they transfer their greater intensity to the lesser intensity of the latter. 1 It may
therefore seem that the conscious wish alone has been realized in a dream; but a slight peculiarity in
the formation of this dream will put us on the track of the powerful helper from the unconscious. These
ever active and, as it were, immortal wishes from the unconscious recall the legendary Titans who
from time immemorial have borne the ponderous mountains which were once rolled upon them by the
victorious gods, and which even now quiver from time to time from the convulsions of their mighty
limbs; I say that these wishes found in the repression are of themselves of an infantile origin, as we
have learned from the psychological investigation of the neuroses. I should like, therefore, to withdraw
the opinion previously expressed that it is unimportant whence the dream-wish originates, and replace
it by another, as follows: The wish manifested in the dream must be an infantile one. In the adult it
originates in the Unc., while in the child, where no separation and censor as yet exist between Forec.
and Unc., or where these are only in the process of formation, it is an unfulfilled and unrepressed wish
from the waking state. I am aware that this conception cannot be generally demonstrated, but I
maintain nevertheless that it can be frequently demonstrated, even when it was not suspected, and that
it cannot be generally refuted.
The wish-feelings which remain from the conscious waking state are, therefore, relegated to the
background in the dream formation. In the dream content I shall attribute to them only the part
attributed to the material of actual sensations during sleep. If I now take into account those other
psychic instigations remaining from the waking state which are not wishes, I shall only adhere to the
line mapped out for me by this train of thought. We may succeed in provisionally terminating the sum
of energy of our waking thoughts by deciding to go to sleep. He is a good sleeper who can do this;
Napoleon I. is reputed to have been a model of this sort. But we do not always succeed in
accomplishing it, or in accomplishing it perfectly. Unsolved problems, harassing cares, overwhelming
impressions continue the thinking activity even during sleep, maintaining psychic processes in the
system which we have termed the foreconscious. These mental processes continuing into sleep may be
divided into the following groups: 1, That which has not been terminated during the day owing to
casual prevention; 2, that which has been left unfinished by temporary paralysis of our mental
power, i.e. the unsolved; 3, that which has been rejected and suppressed during the day. This unites
with a powerful group (4) formed by that which has been excited in our Unc. during the day by the
work of the foreconscious. Finally, we may add group (5) consisting of the indifferent and hence
unsettled impressions of the day.
We should not underrate the psychic intensities introduced into sleep by these remnants of waking life,
especially those emanating from the group of the unsolved. These excitations surely continue to strive
for expression during the night, and we may assume with equal certainty that the sleeping state renders
impossible the usual continuation of the excitement in the foreconscious and the termination of the
excitement by its becoming conscious. As far as we can normally become conscious of our mental
processes, even during the night, in so far we are not asleep. I shall not venture to state what change is
produced in the Forec. system by the sleeping state, but there is no doubt that the psychological
character of sleep is essentially due to the change of energy in this very system, which also dominates
the approach to motility, which is paralyzed during sleep. In contradistinction to this, there seems to be
nothing in the psychology of the dream to warrant the assumption that sleep produces any but
secondary changes in the conditions of the Unc. system. Hence, for the nocturnal excitation in the
Force, there remains no other path than that followed by the wish excitements from the Unc. This
excitation must seek reinforcement from the Unc., and follow the detours of the unconscious
excitations. But what is the relation of the foreconscious day remnants to the dream? There is no doubt
that they penetrate abundantly into the dream, that they utilize the dream content to obtrude themselves
upon consciousness even during the night; indeed, they occasionally even dominate the dream content,
and impel it to continue the work of the day; it is also certain that the day remnants may just as
well have any other character as that of wishes; but it is highly instructive and even decisive for the
theory of wish-fulfillment to see what conditions they must comply with in order to be received into
the dream.
Let us pick out one of the dreams cited above as examples, e.g., the dream in which my friend Otto
seems to show the symptoms of Basedow's disease. My friend Otto's appearance occasioned me some
concern during the day, and this worry, like everything else referring to this person, affected me. I may
also assume that these feelings followed me into sleep. I was probably bent on finding out what was
the matter with him. In the night my worry found expression in the dream which I have reported, the
content of which was not only senseless, but failed to show any wish-fulfillment. But I began to
investigate for the source of this incongruous expression of the solicitude felt during the day, and
analysis revealed the connection. I identified my friend Otto with a certain Baron L. and myself with a
Professor R. There was only one explanation for my being impelled to select just this substitution for
the day thought. I must have always been prepared in the Unc. to identify myself with Professor R., as
it meant the realization of one of the immortal infantile wishes, viz. that of becoming great.
Repulsive ideas respecting my friend, that would certainly have been repudiated in a waking state,
took advantage of the opportunity to creep into the dream, but the worry of the day likewise found
some form of expression through a substitution in the dream content. The day thought, which was no
wish in itself but rather a worry, had in some way to find a connection with the infantile now
unconscious and suppressed wish, which then allowed it, though already properly prepared, to
"originate" for consciousness. The more dominating this worry, the stronger must be the connection to
be established; between the contents of the wish and that of the worry there need be no connection, nor
was there one in any of our examples.
We can now sharply define the significance of the unconscious wish for the dream. It may be admitted
that there is a whole class of dreams in which the incitement originates preponderatingly or even
exclusively from the remnants of daily life; and I believe that even my cherished desire to become at
some future time a "professor extraordinarius" would have allowed me to slumber undisturbed that
night had not my worry about my friend's health been still active. But this worry alone would not have
produced a dream; the motive power needed by the dream had to be contributed by a wish, and it was
the affair of the worriment to procure for itself such wish as a motive power of the dream. To speak
figuratively, it is quite possible that a day thought plays the part of the contractor (entrepreneur) in the
dream. But it is known that no matter what idea the contractor may have in mind, and how desirous he
may be of putting it into operation, he can do nothing without capital; he must depend upon a capitalist
to defray the necessary expenses, and this capitalist, who supplies the psychic expenditure for the
dream is invariably and indisputably a wish from the unconscious, no matter what the nature of the
waking thought may be.
In other cases the capitalist himself is the contractor for the dream; this, indeed, seems to be the more
usual case. An unconscious wish is produced by the day's work, which in turn creates the dream. The
dream processes, moreover, run parallel with all the other possibilities of the economic relationship
used here as an illustration. Thus, the entrepreneur may contribute some capital himself, or several
entrepreneurs may seek the aid of the same capitalist, or several capitalists may jointly supply the
capital required by the entrepreneur. Thus there are dreams produced by more than one dream-wish,
and many similar variations which may readily be passed over and are of no further interest to us.
What we have left unfinished in this discussion of the dream-wish we shall be able to develop later.
The "tertium comparationis" in the comparisons just employed—i.e. the sum placed at our free
disposal in proper allotment—admits of still finer application for the illustration of the dream structure.
We can recognize in most dreams a center especially supplied with perceptible intensity. This is
regularly the direct representation of the wish-fulfillment; for, if we undo the displacements of the
dream-work by a process of retrogression, we find that the psychic intensity of the elements in the
dream thoughts is replaced by the perceptible intensity of the elements in the dream content. The
elements adjoining the wish-fulfillment have frequently nothing to do with its sense, but prove to be
descendants of painful thoughts which oppose the wish. But, owing to their frequently artificial
connection with the central element, they have acquired sufficient intensity to enable them to come to
expression. Thus, the force of expression of the wish-fulfillment is diffused over a certain sphere of
association, within which it raises to expression all elements, including those that are in themselves
impotent. In dreams having several strong wishes we can readily separate from one another the spheres
of the individual wish-fulfillments; the gaps in the dream likewise can often be explained as boundary
zones.
Although the foregoing remarks have considerably limited the significance of the day remnants for the
dream, it will nevertheless be worth our while to give them some attention. For they must be a
necessary ingredient in the formation of the dream, inasmuch as experience reveals the surprising fact
that every dream shows in its content a connection with some impression of a recent day, often of the
most indifferent kind. So far we have failed to see any necessity for this addition to the dream mixture.
This necessity appears only when we follow closely the part played by the unconscious wish, and then
seek information in the psychology of the neuroses. We thus learn that the unconscious idea, as such,
is altogether incapable of entering into the foreconscious, and that it can exert an influence there only
by uniting with a harmless idea already belonging to the foreconscious, to which it transfers its
intensity and under which it allows itself to be concealed. This is the fact of transference which
furnishes an explanation for so many surprising occurrences in the psychic life of neurotics.
The idea from the foreconscious which thus obtains an unmerited abundance of intensity may be left
unchanged by the transference, or it may have forced upon it a modification from the content of the
transferring idea. I trust the reader will pardon my fondness for comparisons from daily life, but I feel
tempted to say that the relations existing for the repressed idea are similar to the situations existing in
Austria for the American dentist, who is forbidden to practise unless he gets permission from a regular
physician to use his name on the public signboard and thus cover the legal requirements. Moreover,
just as it is naturally not the busiest physicians who form such alliances with dental practitioners, so in
the psychic life only such foreconscious or conscious ideas are chosen to cover a repressed idea as
have not themselves attracted much of the attention which is operative in the foreconscious. The
unconscious entangles with its connections preferentially either those impressions and ideas of the
foreconscious which have been left unnoticed as indifferent, or those that have soon been deprived of
this attention through rejection. It is a familiar fact from the association studies confirmed by every
experience, that ideas which have formed intimate connections in one direction assume an almost
negative attitude to whole groups of new connections. I once tried from this principle to develop a
theory for hysterical paralysis.
If we assume that the same need for the transference of the repressed ideas which we have learned to
know from the analysis of the neuroses makes its influence felt in the dream as well, we can at once
explain two riddles of the dream, viz. that every dream analysis shows an interweaving of a recent
impression, and that this recent element is frequently of the most indifferent character. We may add
what we have already learned elsewhere, that these recent and indifferent elements come so frequently
into the dream content as a substitute for the most deep-lying of the dream thoughts, for the further
reason that they have least to fear from the resisting censor. But while this freedom from censorship
explains only the preference for trivial elements, the constant presence of recent elements points to the
fact that there is a need for transference. Both groups of impressions satisfy the demand of the
repression for material still free from associations, the indifferent ones because they have offered no
inducement for extensive associations, and the recent ones because they have had insufficient time to
form such associations.
We thus see that the day remnants, among which we may now include the indifferent
impressions when they participate in the dream formation, not only borrow from the Unc. the motive
power at the disposal of the repressed wish, but also offer to the unconscious something indispensable,
namely, the attachment necessary to the transference. If we here attempted to penetrate more deeply
into the psychic processes, we should first have to throw more light on the play of emotions between
the foreconscious and the unconscious, to which, indeed, we are urged by the study of the
psychoneuroses, whereas the dream itself offers no assistance in this respect.
Just one further remark about the day remnants. There is no doubt that they are the actual disturbers of
sleep, and not the dream, which, on the contrary, strives to guard sleep. But we shall return to this
point later.
We have so far discussed the dream-wish, we have traced it to the sphere of the Unc., and analyzed its
relations to the day remnants, which in turn may be either wishes, psychic emotions of any other kind,
or simply recent impressions. We have thus made room for any claims that may be made for the
importance of conscious thought activity in dream formations in all its variations. Relying upon our
thought series, it would not be at all impossible for us to explain even those extreme cases in which the
dream as a continuer of the day work brings to a happy conclusion and unsolved problem possess an
example, the analysis of which might reveal the infantile or repressed wish source furnishing such
alliance and successful strengthening of the efforts of the foreconscious activity. But we have not come
one step nearer a solution of the riddle: Why can the unconscious furnish the motive power for the
wish-fulfillment only during sleep? The answer to this question must throw light on the psychic nature
of wishes; and it will be given with the aid of the diagram of the psychic apparatus.
We do not doubt that even this apparatus attained its present perfection through a long course of
development. Let us attempt to restore it as it existed in an early phase of its activity. From
assumptions, to be confirmed elsewhere, we know that at first the apparatus strove to keep as free from
excitement as possible, and in its first formation, therefore, the scheme took the form of a reflex
apparatus, which enabled it promptly to discharge through the motor tracts any sensible stimulus
reaching it from without. But this simple function was disturbed by the wants of life, which likewise
furnish the impulse for the further development of the apparatus. The wants of life first manifested
themselves to it in the form of the great physical needs. The excitement aroused by the inner want
seeks an outlet in motility, which may be designated as "inner changes" or as an "expression of the
emotions." The hungry child cries or fidgets helplessly, but its situation remains unchanged; for the
excitation proceeding from an inner want requires, not a momentary outbreak, but a force working
continuously. A change can occur only if in some way a feeling of gratification is experienced—which
in the case of the child must be through outside help—in order to remove the inner excitement. An
essential constituent of this experience is the appearance of a certain perception (of food in our
example), the memory picture of which thereafter remains associated with the memory trace of the
excitation of want.
Thanks to the established connection, there results at the next appearance of this want a psychic feeling
which revives the memory picture of the former perception, and thus recalls the former perception
itself, i.e. it actually re-establishes the situation of the first gratification. We call such a feeling a wish;
the reappearance of the perception constitutes the wish-fulfillment, and the full revival of the
perception by the want excitement constitutes the shortest road to the wish-fulfillment. We may
assume a primitive condition of the psychic apparatus in which this road is really followed, i.e. where
the wishing merges into an hallucination, This first psychic activity therefore aims at an identity of
perception, i.e. it aims at a repetition of that perception which is connected with the fulfillment of the
want.
This primitive mental activity must have been modified by bitter practical experience into a more
expedient secondary activity. The establishment of the identity perception on the short regressive road
within the apparatus does not in another respect carry with it the result which inevitably follows the
revival of the same perception from without. The gratification does not take place, and the want
continues. In order to equalize the internal with the external sum of energy, the former must be
continually maintained, just as actually happens in the hallucinatory psychoses and in the deliriums of
hunger which exhaust their psychic capacity in clinging to the object desired. In order to make more
appropriate use of the psychic force, it becomes necessary to inhibit the full regression so as to prevent
it from extending beyond the image of memory, whence it can select other paths leading ultimately to
the establishment of the desired identity from the outer world. This inhibition and consequent
deviation from the excitation becomes the task of a second system which dominates the voluntary
motility, i.e. through whose activity the expenditure of motility is now devoted to previously recalled
purposes. But this entire complicated mental activity which works its way from the memory picture to
the establishment of the perception identity from the outer world merely represents a detour which has
been forced upon the wish-fulfillment by experience. 2 Thinking is indeed nothing but the equivalent of
the hallucinatory wish; and if the dream be called a wish-fulfillment this becomes self-evident, as
nothing but a wish can impel our psychic apparatus to activity. The dream, which in fulfilling its
wishes follows the short regressive path, thereby preserves for us only an example of the primary form
of the psychic apparatus which has been abandoned as inexpedient. What once ruled in the waking
state when the psychic life was still young and unfit seems to have been banished into the sleeping
state, just as we see again in the nursery the bow and arrow, the discarded primitive weapons of
grown-up humanity. The dream is a fragment of the abandoned psychic life of the child. In the
psychoses these modes of operation of the psychic apparatus, which are normally suppressed in the
waking state, reassert themselves, and then betray their inability to satisfy our wants in the outer world.
The unconscious wish-feelings evidently strive to assert themselves during the day also, and the fact of
transference and the psychoses teach us that they endeavor to penetrate to consciousness and dominate
motility by the road leading through the system of the foreconscious. It is, therefore, the censor lying
between the Unc. and the Forec., the assumption of which is forced upon us by the dream, that we
have to recognize and honor as the guardian of our psychic health. But is it not carelessness on the part
of this guardian to diminish its vigilance during the night and to allow the suppressed emotions of the
Unc. to come to expression, thus again making possible the hallucinatory regression? I think not, for
when the critical guardian goes to rest—and we have proof that his slumber is not profound—he takes
care to close the gate to motility. No matter what feelings from the otherwise inhibited Unc. may roam
about on the scene, they need not be interfered with; they remain harmless because they are unable to
put in motion the motor apparatus which alone can exert a modifying influence upon the outer world.
Sleep guarantees the security of the fortress which is under guard. Conditions are less harmless when a
displacement of forces is produced, not through a nocturnal diminution in the operation of the critical
censor, but through pathological enfeeblement of the latter or through pathological reinforcement of
the unconscious excitations, and this while the foreconscious is charged with energy and the avenues
to motility are open. The guardian is then overpowered, the unconscious excitations subdue the Forec.;
through it they dominate our speech and actions, or they enforce the hallucinatory regression, thus
governing an apparatus not designed for them by virtue of the attraction exerted by the perceptions on
the distribution of our psychic energy. We call this condition a psychosis.
We are now in the best position to complete our psychological construction, which has been
interrupted by the introduction of the two systems, Unc. and Forec. We have still, however, ample
reason for giving further consideration to the wish as the sole psychic motive power in the dream. We
have explained that the reason why the dream is in every case a wish realization is because it is a
product of the Unc., which knows no other aim in its activity but the fulfillment of wishes, and which
has no other forces at its disposal but wish-feelings. If we avail ourselves for a moment longer of the
right to elaborate from the dream interpretation such far-reaching psychological speculations, we are in
duty bound to demonstrate that we are thereby bringing the dream into a relationship which may also
comprise other psychic structures. If there exists a system of the Unc.—or something sufficiently
analogous to it for the purpose of our discussion—the dream cannot be its sole manifestation; every
dream may be a wish-fulfillment, but there must be other forms of abnormal wish-fulfillment beside
this of dreams. Indeed, the theory of all psychoneurotic symptoms culminates in the proposition that
they too must be taken as wish-fulfillments of the unconscious. Our explanation makes the dream only
the first member of a group most important for the psychiatrist, an understanding of which means the
solution of the purely psychological part of the psychiatric problem. But other members of this group
of wish-fulfillments, e.g., the hysterical symptoms, evince one essential quality which I have so far
failed to find in the dream. Thus, from the investigations frequently referred to in this treatise, I know
that the formation of an hysterical symptom necessitates the combination of both streams of our
psychic life. The symptom is not merely the expression of a realized unconscious wish, but it must be
joined by another wish from the foreconscious which is fulfilled by the same symptom; so that the
symptom is at least doubly determined, once by each one of the conflicting systems. Just as in the
dream, there is no limit to further over-determination. The determination not derived from the Unc. is,
as far as I can see, invariably a stream of thought in reaction against the unconscious wish, e.g., a self-
punishment. Hence I may say, in general, that an hysterical symptom originates only where two
contrasting wish-fulfillments, having their source in different psychic systems, are able to combine in
one expression. (Compare my latest formulation of the origin of the hysterical symptoms in a treatise
published by the Zeitschrift für Sexualwissenschaft, by Hirschfeld and others, 1908). Examples on this
point would prove of little value, as nothing but a complete unveiling of the complication in question
would carry conviction. I therefore content myself with the mere assertion, and will cite an example,
not for conviction but for explication. The hysterical vomiting of a female patient proved, on the one
hand, to be the realization of an unconscious fancy from the time of puberty, that she might be
continuously pregnant and have a multitude of children, and this was subsequently united with the
wish that she might have them from as many men as possible. Against this immoderate wish there
arose a powerful defensive impulse. But as the vomiting might spoil the patient's figure and beauty, so
that she would not find favor in the eyes of mankind, the symptom was therefore in keeping with her
punitive trend of thought, and, being thus admissible from both sides, it was allowed to become a
reality. This is the same manner of consenting to a wish-fulfillment which the queen of the Parthians
chose for the triumvir Crassus. Believing that he had undertaken the campaign out of greed for gold,
she caused molten gold to be poured into the throat of the corpse. "Now hast thou what thou hast
longed for." As yet we know of the dream only that it expresses a wish-fulfillment of the unconscious;
and apparently the dominating foreconscious permits this only after it has subjected the wish to some
distortions. We are really in no position to demonstrate regularly a stream of thought antagonistic to
the dream-wish which is realized in the dream as in its counterpart. Only now and then have we found
in the dream traces of reaction formations, as, for instance, the tenderness toward friend R. in the
"uncle dream." But the contribution from the foreconscious, which is missing here, may be found in
another place. While the dominating system has withdrawn on the wish to sleep, the dream may bring
to expression with manifold distortions a wish from the Unc., and realize this wish by producing the
necessary changes of energy in the psychic apparatus, and may finally retain it through the entire
duration of sleep.3
This persistent wish to sleep on the part of the foreconscious in general facilitates the formation of the
dream. Let us refer to the dream of the father who, by the gleam of light from the death chamber, was
brought to the conclusion that the body has been set on fire. We have shown that one of the psychic
forces decisive in causing the father to form this conclusion, instead of being awakened by the gleam
of light, was the wish to prolong the life of the child seen in the dream by one moment. Other wishes
proceeding from the repression probably escape us, because we are unable to analyze this dream. But
as a second motive power of the dream we may mention the father's desire to sleep, for, like the life of
the child, the sleep of the father is prolonged for a moment by the dream. The underlying motive is:
"Let the dream go on, otherwise I must wake up." As in this dream so also in all other dreams, the wish
to sleep lends its support to the unconscious wish. We reported dreams which were apparently dreams
of convenience. But, properly speaking, all dreams may claim this designation. The efficacy of the
wish to continue to sleep is the most easily recognized in the waking dreams, which so transform the
objective sensory stimulus as to render it compatible with the continuance of sleep; they interweave
this stimulus with the dream in order to rob it of any claims it might make as a warning to the outer
world. But this wish to continue to sleep must also participate in the formation of all other dreams
which may disturb the sleeping state from within only. "Now, then, sleep on; why, it's but a dream";
this is in many cases the suggestion of the Forec. to consciousness when the dream goes too far; and
this also describes in a general way the attitude of our dominating psychic activity toward dreaming,
though the thought remains tacit. I must draw the conclusion that throughout our entire sleeping state
we are just as certain that we are dreaming as we are certain that we are sleeping. We are compelled
to disregard the objection urged against this conclusion that our consciousness is never directed to a
knowledge of the former, and that it is directed to a knowledge of the latter only on special occasions
when the censor is unexpectedly surprised. Against this objection we may say that there are persons
who are entirely conscious of their sleeping and dreaming, and who are apparently endowed with the
conscious faculty of guiding their dream life. Such a dreamer, when dissatisfied with the course taken
by the dream, breaks it off without awakening, and begins it anew in order to continue it with a
different turn, like the popular author who, on request, gives a happier ending to his play. Or, at
another time, if placed by the dream in a sexually exciting situation, he thinks in his sleep: "I do not
care to continue this dream and exhaust myself by a pollution; I prefer to defer it in favor of a real
situation."
Footnote 1: They share this character of indestructibility with all psychic acts that are really unconscious—that is,
with psychic acts belonging to the system of the unconscious only. These paths are constantly open and never fall
into disuse; they conduct the discharge of the exciting process as often as it becomes endowed with unconscious
excitement To speak metaphorically they suffer the same form of annihilation as the shades of the lower region in
the Odyssey, who awoke to new life the moment they drank blood. The processes depending on the foreconscious
system are destructible in a different way. The psychotherapy of the neuroses is based on this difference.
Footnote 2: Le Lorrain justly extols the wish-fulfilment of the dream: "Sans fatigue sérieuse, sans être obligé de
recourir à cette lutte opinâtre et longue qui use et corrode les jouissances poursuivies."
Footnote 3: This idea has been borrowed from The Theory of Sleep by Liébault, who revived hypnotic investigation
in our days. (Du Sommeil provoqué, etc.; Paris, 1889.)
VII
THE FUNCTION OF THE DREAM
Since we know that the foreconscious is suspended during the night by the wish to sleep, we can
proceed to an intelligent investigation of the dream process. But let us first sum up the knowledge of
this process already gained. We have shown that the waking activity leaves day remnants from which
the sum of energy cannot be entirely removed; or the waking activity revives during the day one of the
unconscious wishes; or both conditions occur simultaneously; we have already discovered the many
variations that may take place. The unconscious wish has already made its way to the day remnants,
either during the day or at any rate with the beginning of sleep, and has effected a transference to it.
This produces a wish transferred to the recent material, or the suppressed recent wish comes to life
again through a reinforcement from the unconscious. This wish now endeavors to make its way to
consciousness on the normal path of the mental processes through the foreconscious, to which indeed
it belongs through one of its constituent elements. It is confronted, however, by the censor, which is
still active, and to the influence of which it now succumbs. It now takes on the distortion for which the
way has already been paved by its transference to the recent material. Thus far it is in the way of
becoming something resembling an obsession, delusion, or the like, i.e. a thought reinforced by a
transference and distorted in expression by the censor. But its further progress is now checked through
the dormant state of the foreconscious; this system has apparently protected itself against invasion by
diminishing its excitements. The dream process, therefore, takes the regressive course, which has just
been opened by the peculiarity of the sleeping state, and thereby follows the attraction exerted on it by
the memory groups, which themselves exist in part only as visual energy not yet translated into terms
of the later systems. On its way to regression the dream takes on the form of dramatization. The
subject of compression will be discussed later. The dream process has now terminated the second part
of its repeatedly impeded course. The first part expended itself progressively from the unconscious
scenes or phantasies to the foreconscious, while the second part gravitates from the advent of the
censor back to the perceptions. But when the dream process becomes a content of perception it has, so
to speak, eluded the obstacle set up in the Forec. by the censor and by the sleeping state. It succeeds in
drawing attention to itself and in being noticed by consciousness. For consciousness, which means to
us a sensory organ for the reception of psychic qualities, may receive stimuli from two sources—first,
from the periphery of the entire apparatus, viz. from the perception system, and, secondly, from the
pleasure and pain stimuli, which constitute the sole psychic quality produced in the transformation of
energy within the apparatus. All other processes in the system, even those in the foreconscious, are
devoid of any psychic quality, and are therefore not objects of consciousness inasmuch as they do not
furnish pleasure or pain for perception. We shall have to assume that those liberations of pleasure and
pain automatically regulate the outlet of the occupation processes. But in order to make possible more
delicate functions, it was later found necessary to render the course of the presentations more
independent of the manifestations of pain. To accomplish this the Forec. system needed some qualities
of its own which could attract consciousness, and most probably received them through the connection
of the foreconscious processes with the memory system of the signs of speech, which is not devoid of
qualities. Through the qualities of this system, consciousness, which had hitherto been a sensory organ
only for the perceptions, now becomes also a sensory organ for a part of our mental processes. Thus
we have now, as it were, two sensory surfaces, one directed to perceptions and the other to the
foreconscious mental processes.
I must assume that the sensory surface of consciousness devoted to the Forec. is rendered less
excitable by sleep than that directed to the P-systems. The giving up of interest for the nocturnal
mental processes is indeed purposeful. Nothing is to disturb the mind; the Forec. wants to sleep. But
once the dream becomes a perception, it is then capable of exciting consciousness through the qualities
thus gained. The sensory stimulus accomplishes what it was really destined for, namely, it directs a
part of the energy at the disposal of the Forec. in the form of attention upon the stimulant. We must,
therefore, admit that the dream invariably awakens us, that is, it puts into activity a part of the dormant
force of the Forec. This force imparts to the dream that influence which we have designated as
secondary elaboration for the sake of connection and comprehensibility. This means that the dream is
treated by it like any other content of perception; it is subjected to the same ideas of expectation, as far
at least as the material admits. As far as the direction is concerned in this third part of the dream, it
may be said that here again the movement is progressive.
To avoid misunderstanding, it will not be amiss to say a few words about the temporal peculiarities of
these dream processes. In a very interesting discussion, apparently suggested by Maury's puzzling
guillotine dream, Goblet tries to demonstrate that the dream requires no other time than the transition
period between sleeping and awakening. The awakening requires time, as the dream takes place during
that period. One is inclined to believe that the final picture of the dream is so strong that it forces the
dreamer to awaken; but, as a matter of fact, this picture is strong only because the dreamer is already
very near awakening when it appears. "Un rêve c'est un réveil qui commence."
It has already been emphasized by Dugas that Goblet was forced to repudiate many facts in order to
generalize his theory. There are, moreover, dreams from which we do not awaken, e.g., some dreams
in which we dream that we dream. From our knowledge of the dream-work, we can by no means admit
that it extends only over the period of awakening. On the contrary, we must consider it probable that
the first part of the dream-work begins during the day when we are still under the domination of the
foreconscious. The second phase of the dream-work, viz. the modification through the censor, the
attraction by the unconscious scenes, and the penetration to perception must continue throughout the
night. And we are probably always right when we assert that we feel as though we had been dreaming
the whole night, although we cannot say what. I do not, however, think it necessary to assume that, up
to the time of becoming conscious, the dream processes really follow the temporal sequence which we
have described, viz. that there is first the transferred dream-wish, then the distortion of the censor, and
consequently the change of direction to regression, and so on. We were forced to form such a
succession for the sake of description; in reality, however, it is much rather a matter of simultaneously
trying this path and that, and of emotions fluctuating to and fro, until finally, owing to the most
expedient distribution, one particular grouping is secured which remains. From certain personal
experiences, I am myself inclined to believe that the dream-work often requires more than one day and
one night to produce its result; if this be true, the extraordinary art manifested in the construction of the
dream loses all its marvels. In my opinion, even the regard for comprehensibility as an occurrence of
perception may take effect before the dream attracts consciousness to itself. To be sure, from now on
the process is accelerated, as the dream is henceforth subjected to the same treatment as any other
perception. It is like fireworks, which require hours of preparation and only a moment for ignition.
Through the dream-work the dream process now gains either sufficient intensity to attract
consciousness to itself and arouse the foreconscious, which is quite independent of the time or
profundity of sleep, or, its intensity being insufficient it must wait until it meets the attention which is
set in motion immediately before awakening. Most dreams seem to operate with relatively slight
psychic intensities, for they wait for the awakening. This, however, explains the fact that we regularly
perceive something dreamt on being suddenly aroused from a sound sleep. Here, as well as in
spontaneous awakening, the first glance strikes the perception content created by the dream-work,
while the next strikes the one produced from without.
But of greater theoretical interest are those dreams which are capable of waking us in the midst of
sleep. We must bear in mind the expediency elsewhere universally demonstrated, and ask
ourselves why the dream or the unconscious wish has the power to disturb sleep, i.e. the fulfillment of
the foreconscious wish. This is probably due to certain relations of energy into which we have no
insight. If we possessed such insight we should probably find that the freedom given to the dream and
the expenditure of a certain amount of detached attention represent for the dream an economy in
energy, keeping in view the fact that the unconscious must be held in check at night just as during the
day. We know from experience that the dream, even if it interrupts sleep, repeatedly during the same
night, still remains compatible with sleep. We wake up for an instant, and immediately resume our
sleep. It is like driving off a fly during sleep, we awake ad hoc, and when we resume our sleep we
have removed the disturbance. As demonstrated by familiar examples from the sleep of wet nurses,
&c., the fulfillment of the wish to sleep is quite compatible with the retention of a certain amount of
attention in a given direction.
But we must here take cognizance of an objection that is based on a better knowledge of the
unconscious processes. Although we have ourselves described the unconscious wishes as always
active, we have, nevertheless, asserted that they are not sufficiently strong during the day to make
themselves perceptible. But when we sleep, and the unconscious wish has shown its power to form a
dream, and with it to awaken the foreconscious, why, then, does this power become exhausted after the
dream has been taken cognizance of? Would it not seem more probable that the dream should
continually renew itself, like the troublesome fly which, when driven away, takes pleasure in returning
again and again? What justifies our assertion that the dream removes the disturbance of sleep?
That the unconscious wishes always remain active is quite true. They represent paths which are
passable whenever a sum of excitement makes use of them. Moreover, a remarkable peculiarity of the
unconscious processes is the fact that they remain indestructible. Nothing can be brought to an end in
the unconscious; nothing can cease or be forgotten. This impression is most strongly gained in the
study of the neuroses, especially of hysteria. The unconscious stream of thought which leads to the
discharge through an attack becomes passable again as soon as there is an accumulation of a sufficient
amount of excitement. The mortification brought on thirty years ago, after having gained access to the
unconscious affective source, operates during all these thirty years like a recent one. Whenever its
memory is touched, it is revived and shows itself to be supplied with the excitement which is
discharged in a motor attack. It is just here that the office of psychotherapy begins, its task being to
bring about adjustment and forgetfulness for the unconscious processes. Indeed, the fading of
memories and the flagging of affects, which we are apt to take as self-evident and to explain as a
primary influence of time on the psychic memories, are in reality secondary changes brought about by
painstaking work. It is the foreconscious that accomplishes this work; and the only course to be
pursued by psychotherapy is the subjugate the Unc, to the domination of the Forec.
There are, therefore, two exits for the individual unconscious emotional process. It is either left to
itself, in which case it ultimately breaks through somewhere and secures for once a discharge for its
excitation into motility; or it succumbs to the influence of the foreconscious, and its excitation
becomes confined through this influence instead of being discharged. It is the latter process that occurs
in the dream. Owing to the fact that it is directed by the conscious excitement, the energy from the
Forec., which confronts the dream when grown to perception, restricts the unconscious excitement of
the dream and renders it harmless as a disturbing factor. When the dreamer wakes up for a moment, he
has actually chased away the fly that has threatened to disturb his sleep. We can now understand that it
is really more expedient and economical to give full sway to the unconscious wish, and clear its way to
regression so that it may form a dream, and then restrict and adjust this dream by means of a small
expenditure of foreconscious labor, than to curb the unconscious throughout the entire period of sleep.
We should, indeed, expect that the dream, even if it was not originally an expedient process, would
have acquired some function in the play of forces of the psychic life. We now see what this function is.
The dream has taken it upon itself to bring the liberated excitement of the Unc. back under the
domination of the foreconscious; it thus affords relief for the excitement of the Unc. and acts as a
safety-valve for the latter, and at the same time it insures the sleep of the foreconscious at a slight
expenditure of the waking state. Like the other psychic formations of its group, the dream offers itself
as a compromise serving simultaneously both systems by fulfilling both wishes in so far as they are
compatible with each other. A glance at Robert's "elimination theory," will show that we must agree
with this author in his main point, viz. in the determination of the function of the dream, though we
differ from him in our hypotheses and in our treatment of the dream process.
The above qualification—in so far as the two wishes are compatible with each other—contains a
suggestion that there may be cases in which the function of the dream suffers shipwreck. The dream
process is in the first instance admitted as a wish-fulfillment of the unconscious, but if this tentative
wish-fulfillment disturbs the foreconscious to such an extent that the latter can no longer maintain its
rest, the dream then breaks the compromise and fails to perform the second part of its task. It is then at
once broken off, and replaced by complete wakefulness. Here, too, it is not really the fault of the
dream, if, while ordinarily the guardian of sleep, it is here compelled to appear as the disturber of
sleep, nor should this cause us to entertain any doubts as to its efficacy. This is not the only case in the
organism in which an otherwise efficacious arrangement became inefficacious and disturbing as soon
as some element is changed in the conditions of its origin; the disturbance then serves at least the new
purpose of announcing the change, and calling into play against it the means of adjustment of the
organism. In this connection, I naturally bear in mind the case of the anxiety dream, and in order not to
have the appearance of trying to exclude this testimony against the theory of wish-fulfillment wherever
I encounter it, I will attempt an explanation of the anxiety dream, at least offering some suggestions.
That a psychic process developing anxiety may still be a wish-fulfillment has long ceased to impress
us as a contradiction. We may explain this occurrence by the fact that the wish belongs to one system
(the Unc.), while by the other system (the Forec.), this wish has been rejected and suppressed. The
subjection of the Unc. by the Forec. is not complete even in perfect psychic health; the amount of this
suppression shows the degree of our psychic normality. Neurotic symptoms show that there is a
conflict between the two systems; the symptoms are the results of a compromise of this conflict, and
they temporarily put an end to it. On the one hand, they afford the Unc. an outlet for the discharge of
its excitement, and serve it as a sally port, while, on the other hand, they give the Forec. the capability
of dominating the Unc. to some extent. It is highly instructive to consider, e.g., the significance of any
hysterical phobia or of an agoraphobia. Suppose a neurotic incapable of crossing the street alone,
which we would justly call a "symptom." We attempt to remove this symptom by urging him to the
action which he deems himself incapable of. The result will be an attack of anxiety, just as an attack of
anxiety in the street has often been the cause of establishing an agoraphobia. We thus learn that the
symptom has been constituted in order to guard against the outbreak of the anxiety. The phobia is
thrown before the anxiety like a fortress on the frontier.
Unless we enter into the part played by the affects in these processes, which can be done here only
imperfectly, we cannot continue our discussion. Let us therefore advance the proposition that the
reason why the suppression of the unconscious becomes absolutely necessary is because, if the
discharge of presentation should be left to itself, it would develop an affect in the Unc. which
originally bore the character of pleasure, but which, since the appearance of the repression, bears the
character of pain. The aim, as well as the result, of the suppression is to stop the development of this
pain. The suppression extends over the unconscious ideation, because the liberation of pain might
emanate from the ideation. The foundation is here laid for a very definite assumption concerning the
nature of the affective development. It is regarded as a motor or secondary activity, the key to the
innervation of which is located in the presentations of the Unc. Through the domination of the
Forec. these presentations become, as it were, throttled and inhibited at the exit of the emotion-
developing impulses. The danger, which is due to the fact that the Forec. ceases to occupy the energy,
therefore consists in the fact that the unconscious excitations liberate such an affect as—in
consequence of the repression that has previously taken place—can only be perceived as pain or
anxiety.
This danger is released through the full sway of the dream process. The determinations for its
realization consist in the fact that repressions have taken place, and that the suppressed emotional
wishes shall become sufficiently strong. They thus stand entirely without the psychological realm of
the dream structure. Were it not for the fact that our subject is connected through just one factor,
namely, the freeing of the Unc. during sleep, with the subject of the development of anxiety, I could
dispense with discussion of the anxiety dream, and thus avoid all obscurities connected with it.
As I have often repeated, the theory of the anxiety belongs to the psychology of the neuroses. I would
say that the anxiety in the dream is an anxiety problem and not a dream problem. We have nothing
further to do with it after having once demonstrated its point of contact with the subject of the dream
process. There is only one thing left for me to do. As I have asserted that the neurotic anxiety
originates from sexual sources, I can subject anxiety dreams to analysis in order to demonstrate the
sexual material in their dream thoughts.
For good reasons I refrain from citing here any of the numerous examples placed at my disposal by
neurotic patients, but prefer to give anxiety dreams from young persons.
Personally, I have had no real anxiety dream for decades, but I recall one from my seventh or eighth
year which I subjected to interpretation about thirty years later. The dream was very vivid, and showed
me my beloved mother, with peculiarly calm sleeping countenance, carried into the room and laid on
the bed by two (or three) persons with birds' beaks. I awoke crying and screaming, and disturbed my
parents. The very tall figures—draped in a peculiar manner—with beaks, I had taken from the
illustrations of Philippson's bible; I believe they represented deities with heads of sparrowhawks from
an Egyptian tomb relief. The analysis also introduced the reminiscence of a naughty janitor's boy, who
used to play with us children on the meadow in front of the house; I would add that his name was
Philip. I feel that I first heard from this boy the vulgar word signifying sexual intercourse, which is
replaced among the educated by the Latin "coitus," but to which the dream distinctly alludes by the
selection of the birds' heads. I must have suspected the sexual significance of the word from the facial
expression of my worldly-wise teacher. My mother's features in the dream were copied from the
countenance of my grandfather, whom I had seen a few days before his death snoring in the state of
coma. The interpretation of the secondary elaboration in the dream must therefore have been that my
mother was dying; the tomb relief, too, agrees with this. In this anxiety I awoke, and could not calm
myself until I had awakened my parents. I remember that I suddenly became calm on coming face to
face with my mother, as if I needed the assurance that my mother was not dead. But this secondary
interpretation of the dream had been effected only under the influence of the developed anxiety. I was
not frightened because I dreamed that my mother was dying, but I interpreted the dream in this manner
in the foreconscious elaboration because I was already under the domination of the anxiety. The latter,
however, could be traced by means of the repression to an obscure obviously sexual desire, which had
found its satisfying expression in the visual content of the dream.
A man twenty-seven years old who had been severely ill for a year had had many terrifying dreams
between the ages of eleven and thirteen. He thought that a man with an ax was running after him; he
wished to run, but felt paralyzed and could not move from the spot. This may be taken as a good
example of a very common, and apparently sexually indifferent, anxiety dream. In the analysis the
dreamer first thought of a story told him by his uncle, which chronologically was later than the dream,
viz. that he was attacked at night by a suspicious-looking individual. This occurrence led him to
believe that he himself might have already heard of a similar episode at the time of the dream. In
connection with the ax he recalled that during that period of his life he once hurt his hand with an ax
while chopping wood. This immediately led to his relations with his younger brother, whom he used to
maltreat and knock down. In particular, he recalled an occasion when he struck his brother on the head
with his boot until he bled, whereupon his mother remarked: "I fear he will kill him some day." While
he was seemingly thinking of the subject of violence, a reminiscence from his ninth year suddenly
occurred to him. His parents came home late and went to bed while he was feigning sleep. He soon
heard panting and other noises that appeared strange to him, and he could also make out the position of
his parents in bed. His further associations showed that he had established an analogy between this
relation between his parents and his own relation toward his younger brother. He subsumed what
occurred between his parents under the conception "violence and wrestling," and thus reached a
sadistic conception of the coitus act, as often happens among children. The fact that he often noticed
blood on his mother's bed corroborated his conception.
That the sexual intercourse of adults appears strange to children who observe it, and arouses fear in
them, I dare say is a fact of daily experience. I have explained this fear by the fact that sexual
excitement is not mastered by their understanding, and is probably also inacceptable to them because
their parents are involved in it. For the same son this excitement is converted into fear. At a still earlier
period of life sexual emotion directed toward the parent of opposite sex does not meet with repression
but finds free expression, as we have seen before.
For the night terrors with hallucinations (pavor nocturnus) frequently found in children, I would
unhesitatingly give the same explanation. Here, too, we are certainly dealing with the
incomprehensible and rejected sexual feelings, which, if noted, would probably show a temporal
periodicity, for an enhancement of the sexual libido may just as well be produced accidentally through
emotional impressions as through the spontaneous and gradual processes of development.
I lack the necessary material to sustain these explanations from observation. On the other hand, the
pediatrists seem to lack the point of view which alone makes comprehensible the whole series of
phenomena, on the somatic as well as on the psychic side. To illustrate by a comical example how one
wearing the blinders of medical mythology may miss the understanding of such cases I will relate a
case which I found in a thesis on pavor nocturnus by Debacker, 1881. A thirteen-year-old boy of
delicate health began to become anxious and dreamy; his sleep became restless, and about once a week
it was interrupted by an acute attack of anxiety with hallucinations. The memory of these dreams was
invariably very distinct. Thus, he related that the devil shouted at him: "Now we have you, now we
have you," and this was followed by an odor of sulphur; the fire burned his skin. This dream aroused
him, terror-stricken. He was unable to scream at first; then his voice returned, and he was heard to say
distinctly: "No, no, not me; why, I have done nothing," or, "Please don't, I shall never do it again."
Occasionally, also, he said: "Albert has not done that." Later he avoided undressing, because, as he
said, the fire attacked him only when he was undressed. From amid these evil dreams, which menaced
his health, he was sent into the country, where he recovered within a year and a half, but at the age of
fifteen he once confessed: "Je n'osais pas l'avouer, mais j'éprouvais continuellement des picotements et
des surexcitations aux parties; à la fin, cela m'énervait tant que plusieurs fois, j'ai pensé me jeter par la
fenêtre au dortoir."
It is certainly not difficult to suspect: 1, that the boy had practiced masturbation in former years, that
he probably denied it, and was threatened with severe punishment for his wrongdoing (his confession:
Je ne le ferai plus; his denial: Albert n'a jamais fait ça). 2, That under the pressure of puberty the
temptation to self-abuse through the tickling of the genitals was reawakened. 3, That now, however, a
struggle of repression arose in him, suppressing the libido and changing it into fear, which
subsequently took the form of the punishments with which he was then threatened.
Let us, however, quote the conclusions drawn by our author. This observation shows: 1, That the
influence of puberty may produce in a boy of delicate health a condition of extreme weakness, and that
it may lead to a very marked cerebral anæmia.
2. This cerebral anæmia produces a transformation of character, demonomaniacal hallucinations, and

very violent nocturnal, perhaps also diurnal, states of anxiety.
3. Demonomania and the self-reproaches of the day can be traced to the influences of religious
education which the subject underwent as a child.
4. All manifestations disappeared as a result of a lengthy sojourn in the country, bodily exercise, and
the return of physical strength after the termination of the period of puberty.
5. A predisposing influence for the origin of the cerebral condition of the boy may be attributed to
heredity and to the father's chronic syphilitic state.
The concluding remarks of the author read: "Nous avons fait entrer cette observation dans le cadre des
délires apyrétiques d'inanition, car c'est à l'ischémie cérébrale que nous rattachons cet état particulier."
VIII
THE PRIMARY AND SECONDARY PROCESS—REGRESSION
In venturing to attempt to penetrate more deeply into the psychology of the dream processes, I have
undertaken a difficult task, to which, indeed, my power of description is hardly equal. To reproduce in
description by a succession of words the simultaneousness of so complex a chain of events, and in
doing so to appear unbiassed throughout the exposition, goes fairly beyond my powers. I have now to
atone for the fact that I have been unable in my description of the dream psychology to follow the
historic development of my views. The view-points for my conception of the dream were reached
through earlier investigations in the psychology of the neuroses, to which I am not supposed to refer
here, but to which I am repeatedly forced to refer, whereas I should prefer to proceed in the opposite
direction, and, starting from the dream, to establish a connection with the psychology of the neuroses. I
am well aware of all the inconveniences arising for the reader from this difficulty, but I know of no
way to avoid them.
As I am dissatisfied with this state of affairs, I am glad to dwell upon another view-point which seems
to raise the value of my efforts. As has been shown in the introduction to the first chapter, I found
myself confronted with a theme which had been marked by the sharpest contradictions on the part of
the authorities. After our elaboration of the dream problems we found room for most of these
contradictions. We have been forced, however, to take decided exception to two of the views
pronounced, viz. that the dream is a senseless and that it is a somatic process; apart from these cases
we have had to accept all the contradictory views in one place or another of the complicated argument,
and we have been able to demonstrate that they had discovered something that was correct. That the
dream continues the impulses and interests of the waking state has been quite generally confirmed
through the discovery of the latent thoughts of the dream. These thoughts concern themselves only
with things that seem important and of momentous interest to us. The dream never occupies itself with
trifles. But we have also concurred with the contrary view, viz., that the dream gathers up the
indifferent remnants from the day, and that not until it has in some measure withdrawn itself from the
waking activity can an important event of the day be taken up by the dream. We found this holding
true for the dream content, which gives the dream thought its changed expression by means of
disfigurement. We have said that from the nature of the association mechanism the dream process
more easily takes possession of recent or indifferent material which has not yet been seized by the
waking mental activity; and by reason of the censor it transfers the psychic intensity from the
important but also disagreeable to the indifferent material. The hypermnesia of the dream and the
resort to infantile material have become main supports in our theory. In our theory of the dream we
have attributed to the wish originating from the infantile the part of an indispensable motor for the
formation of the dream. We naturally could not think of doubting the experimentally demonstrated
significance of the objective sensory stimuli during sleep; but we have brought this material into the
same relation to the dream-wish as the thought remnants from the waking activity. There was no need
of disputing the fact that the dream interprets the objective sensory stimuli after the manner of an
illusion; but we have supplied the motive for this interpretation which has been left undecided by the
authorities. The interpretation follows in such a manner that the perceived object is rendered harmless
as a sleep disturber and becomes available for the wish-fulfillment. Though we do not admit as special
sources of the dream the subjective state of excitement of the sensory organs during sleep, which
seems to have been demonstrated by Trumbull Ladd, we are nevertheless able to explain this
excitement through the regressive revival of active memories behind the dream. A modest part in our
conception has also been assigned to the inner organic sensations which are wont to be taken as the
cardinal point in the explanation of the dream. These—the sensation of falling, flying, or inhibition—
stand as an ever ready material to be used by the dream-work to express the dream thought as often as
need arises.
That the dream process is a rapid and momentary one seems to be true for the perception through
consciousness of the already prepared dream content; the preceding parts of the dream process
probably take a slow, fluctuating course. We have solved the riddle of the superabundant dream
content compressed within the briefest moment by explaining that this is due to the appropriation of
almost fully formed structures from the psychic life. That the dream is disfigured and distorted by
memory we found to be correct, but not troublesome, as this is only the last manifest operation in the
work of disfigurement which has been active from the beginning of the dream-work. In the bitter and
seemingly irreconcilable controversy as to whether the psychic life sleeps at night or can make the
same use of all its capabilities as during the day, we have been able to agree with both sides, though
not fully with either. We have found proof that the dream thoughts represent a most complicated
intellectual activity, employing almost every means furnished by the psychic apparatus; still it cannot
be denied that these dream thoughts have originated during the day, and it is indispensable to assume
that there is a sleeping state of the psychic life. Thus, even the theory of partial sleep has come into
play; but the characteristics of the sleeping state have been found not in the dilapidation of the psychic
connections but in the cessation of the psychic system dominating the day, arising from its desire to
sleep. The withdrawal from the outer world retains its significance also for our conception; though not
the only factor, it nevertheless helps the regression to make possible the representation of the dream.
That we should reject the voluntary guidance of the presentation course is uncontestable; but the
psychic life does not thereby become aimless, for we have seen that after the abandonment of the
desired end-presentation undesired ones gain the mastery. The loose associative connection in the
dream we have not only recognized, but we have placed under its control a far greater territory than
could have been supposed; we have, however, found it merely the feigned substitute for another
correct and senseful one. To be sure we, too, have called the dream absurd; but we have been able to
learn from examples how wise the dream really is when it simulates absurdity. We do not deny any of
the functions that have been attributed to the dream. That the dream relieves the mind like a valve, and
that, according to Robert's assertion, all kinds of harmful material are rendered harmless through
representation in the dream, not only exactly coincides with our theory of the twofold wish-fulfillment
in the dream, but, in his own wording, becomes even more comprehensible for us than for Robert
himself. The free indulgence of the psychic in the play of its faculties finds expression with us in the
non-interference with the dream on the part of the foreconscious activity. The "return to the embryonal
state of psychic life in the dream" and the observation of Havelock Ellis, "an archaic world of vast
emotions and imperfect thoughts," appear to us as happy anticipations of our deductions to the effect
that primitive modes of work suppressed during the day participate in the formation of the dream; and
with us, as with Delage, the suppressed material becomes the mainspring of the dreaming.
We have fully recognized the rôle which Scherner ascribes to the dream phantasy, and even his
interpretation; but we have been obliged, so to speak, to conduct them to another department in the
problem. It is not the dream that produces the phantasy but the unconscious phantasy that takes the
greatest part in the formation of the dream thoughts. We are indebted to Scherner for his clew to the
source of the dream thoughts, but almost everything that he ascribes to the dream-work is attributable
to the activity of the unconscious, which is at work during the day, and which supplies incitements not
only for dreams but for neurotic symptoms as well. We have had to separate the dream-work from this
activity as being something entirely different and far more restricted. Finally, we have by no means
abandoned the relation of the dream to mental disturbances, but, on the contrary, we have given it a
more solid foundation on new ground.
Thus held together by the new material of our theory as by a superior unity, we find the most varied
and most contradictory conclusions of the authorities fitting into our structure; some of them are
differently disposed, only a few of them are entirely rejected. But our own structure is still unfinished.
For, disregarding the many obscurities which we have necessarily encountered in our advance into the
darkness of psychology, we are now apparently embarrassed by a new contradiction. On the one hand,
we have allowed the dream thoughts to proceed from perfectly normal mental operations, while, on the
other hand, we have found among the dream thoughts a number of entirely abnormal mental processes
which extend likewise to the dream contents. These, consequently, we have repeated in the
interpretation of the dream. All that we have termed the "dream-work" seems so remote from the
psychic processes recognized by us as correct, that the severest judgments of the authors as to the low
psychic activity of dreaming seem to us well founded.
Perhaps only through still further advance can enlightenment and improvement be brought about. I
shall pick out one of the constellations leading to the formation of dreams.
We have learned that the dream replaces a number of thoughts derived from daily life which are
perfectly formed logically. We cannot therefore doubt that these thoughts originate from our normal
mental life. All the qualities which we esteem in our mental operations, and which distinguish these as
complicated activities of a high order, we find repeated in the dream thoughts. There is, however, no
need of assuming that this mental work is performed during sleep, as this would materially impair the
conception of the psychic state of sleep we have hitherto adhered to. These thoughts may just as well
have originated from the day, and, unnoticed by our consciousness from their inception, they may have
continued to develop until they stood complete at the onset of sleep. If we are to conclude anything
from this state of affairs, it will at most prove that the most complex mental operations are possible
without the coöperation of consciousness, which we have already learned independently from every
psychoanalysis of persons suffering from hysteria or obsessions. These dream thoughts are in
themselves surely not incapable of consciousness; if they have not become conscious to us during the
day, this may have various reasons. The state of becoming conscious depends on the exercise of a
certain psychic function, viz. attention, which seems to be extended only in a definite quantity, and
which may have been withdrawn from the stream of thought in Question by other aims. Another way
in which such mental streams are kept from consciousness is the following:—Our conscious reflection
teaches us that when exercising attention we pursue a definite course. But if that course leads us to an
idea which does not hold its own with the critic, we discontinue and cease to apply our attention. Now,
apparently, the stream of thought thus started and abandoned may spin on without regaining attention
unless it reaches a spot of especially marked intensity which forces the return of attention. An initial
rejection, perhaps consciously brought about by the judgment on the ground of incorrectness or
unfitness for the actual purpose of the mental act, may therefore account for the fact that a mental
process continues until the onset of sleep unnoticed by consciousness.
Let us recapitulate by saying that we call such a stream of thought a foreconscious one, that we believe
it to be perfectly correct, and that it may just as well be a more neglected one or an interrupted and
suppressed one. Let us also state frankly in what manner we conceive this presentation course. We
believe that a certain sum of excitement, which we call occupation energy, is displaced from an end-
presentation along the association paths selected by that end-presentation. A "neglected" stream of
thought has received no such occupation, and from a "suppressed" or "rejected" one this occupation
has been withdrawn; both have thus been left to their own emotions. The end-stream of thought
stocked with energy is under certain conditions able to draw to itself the attention of consciousness,
through which means it then receives a "surplus of energy." We shall be obliged somewhat later to
elucidate our assumption concerning the nature and activity of consciousness.
A train of thought thus incited in the Forec. may either disappear spontaneously or continue. The
former issue we conceive as follows: It diffuses its energy through all the association paths emanating
from it, and throws the entire chain of ideas into a state of excitement which, after lasting for a while,
subsides through the transformation of the excitement requiring an outlet into dormant energy. 1 If this
first issue is brought about the process has no further significance for the dream formation. But other
end-presentations are lurking in our foreconscious that originate from the sources of our unconscious
and from the ever active wishes. These may take possession of the excitations in the circle of thought
thus left to itself, establish a connection between it and the unconscious wish, and transfer to it the
energy inherent in the unconscious wish. Henceforth the neglected or suppressed train of thought is in
a position to maintain itself, although this reinforcement does not help it to gain access to
consciousness. We may say that the hitherto foreconscious train of thought has been drawn into the
unconscious.
Other constellations for the dream formation would result if the foreconscious train of thought had
from the beginning been connected with the unconscious wish, and for that reason met with rejection
by the dominating end-occupation; or if an unconscious wish were made active for other—possibly
somatic—reasons and of its own accord sought a transference to the psychic remnants not occupied by
the Forec. All three cases finally combine in one issue, so that there is established in the foreconscious
a stream of thought which, having been abandoned by the foreconscious occupation, receives
occupation from the unconscious wish.
The stream of thought is henceforth subjected to a series of transformations which we no longer

recognize as normal psychic processes and which give us a surprising result, viz. a psychopathological
formation. Let us emphasize and group the same.
1. The intensities of the individual ideas become capable of discharge in their entirety, and, proceeding
from one conception to the other, they thus form single presentations endowed with marked
intensity. Through the repeated recurrence of this process the intensity of an entire train of ideas may
ultimately be gathered in a single presentation element. This is the principle of compression or
condensation. It is condensation that is mainly responsible for the strange impression of the dream, for
we know of nothing analogous to it in the normal psychic life accessible to consciousness. We find
here, also, presentations which possess great psychic significance as junctions or as end-results of
whole chains of thought; but this validity does not manifest itself in any character conspicuous enough
for internal perception; hence, what has been presented in it does not become in any way more
intensive. In the process of condensation the entire psychic connection becomes transformed into the
intensity of the presentation content. It is the same as in a book where we space or print in heavy type
any word upon which particular stress is laid for the understanding of the text. In speech the same
word would be pronounced loudly and deliberately and with emphasis. The first comparison leads us
at once to an example taken from the chapter on "The Dream-Work" (trimethylamine in the dream of
Irma's injection). Historians of art call our attention to the fact that the most ancient historical
sculptures follow a similar principle in expressing the rank of the persons represented by the size of the
statue. The king is made two or three times as large as his retinue or the vanquished enemy. A piece of
art, however, from the Roman period makes use of more subtle means to accomplish the same
purpose. The figure of the emperor is placed in the center in a firmly erect posture; special care is
bestowed on the proper modelling of his figure; his enemies are seen cowering at his feet; but he is no
longer represented a giant among dwarfs. However, the bowing of the subordinate to his superior in
our own days is only an echo of that ancient principle of representation.
The direction taken by the condensations of the dream is prescribed on the one hand by the true
foreconscious relations of the dream thoughts, an the other hand by the attraction of the visual
reminiscences in the unconscious. The success of the condensation work produces those intensities
which are required for penetration into the perception systems.
2. Through this free transferability of the intensities, moreover, and in the service of
condensation, intermediary presentations—compromises, as it were—are formed (cf. the numerous
examples). This, likewise, is something unheard of in the normal presentation course, where it is above
all a question of selection and retention of the "proper" presentation element. On the other hand,
composite and compromise formations occur with extraordinary frequency when we are trying to find
the linguistic expression for foreconscious thoughts; these are considered "slips of the tongue."
3. The presentations which transfer their intensities to one another are very loosely connected, and are
joined together by such forms of association as are spurned in our serious thought and are utilized in
the production of the effect of wit only. Among these we particularly find associations of the sound
and consonance types.
4. Contradictory thoughts do not strive to eliminate one another, but remain side by side. They often
unite to produce condensation as if no contradiction existed, or they form compromises for which we
should never forgive our thoughts, but which we frequently approve of in our actions.
These are some of the most conspicuous abnormal processes to which the thoughts which have
previously been rationally formed are subjected in the course of the dream-work. As the main feature
of these processes we recognize the high importance attached to the fact of rendering the occupation
energy mobile and capable of discharge; the content and the actual significance of the psychic
elements, to which these energies adhere, become a matter of secondary importance. One might
possibly think that the condensation and compromise formation is effected only in the service of
regression, when occasion arises for changing thoughts into pictures. But the analysis and—still more
distinctly—the synthesis of dreams which lack regression toward pictures, e.g. the dream
"Autodidasker—Conversation with Court-Councilor N.," present the same processes of displacement
and condensation as the others.
Hence we cannot refuse to acknowledge that the two kinds of essentially different psychic processes
participate in the formation of the dream; one forms perfectly correct dream thoughts which are
equivalent to normal thoughts, while the other treats these ideas in a highly surprising and incorrect
manner. The latter process we have already set apart as the dream-work proper. What have we now to
advance concerning this latter psychic process?
We should be unable to answer this question here if we had not penetrated considerably into the
psychology of the neuroses and especially of hysteria. From this we learn that the same incorrect
psychic processes—as well as others that have not been enumerated—control the formation of
hysterical symptoms. In hysteria, too, we at once find a series of perfectly correct thoughts equivalent
to our conscious thoughts, of whose existence, however, in this form we can learn nothing and which
we can only subsequently reconstruct. If they have forced their way anywhere to our perception, we
discover from the analysis of the symptom formed that these normal thoughts have been subjected to
abnormal treatment and have been transformed into the symptom by means of condensation and
compromise formation, through superficial associations, under cover of contradictions, and eventually
over the road of regression. In view of the complete identity found between the peculiarities of the
dream-work and of the psychic activity forming the psychoneurotic symptoms, we shall feel justified
in transferring to the dream the conclusions urged upon us by hysteria.
From the theory of hysteria we borrow the proposition that such an abnormal psychic elaboration of a
normal train of thought takes place only when the latter has been used for the transference of an
unconscious wish which dates from the infantile life and is in a state of repression. In accordance with
this proposition we have construed the theory of the dream on the assumption that the actuating dream-
wish invariably originates in the unconscious, which, as we ourselves have admitted, cannot be
universally demonstrated though it cannot be refuted. But in order to explain the real meaning of the
term repression, which we have employed so freely, we shall be obliged to make some further addition
to our psychological construction.
We have above elaborated the fiction of a primitive psychic apparatus, whose work is regulated by the
efforts to avoid accumulation of excitement and as far as possible to maintain itself free from
excitement. For this reason it was constructed after the plan of a reflex apparatus; the motility,
originally the path for the inner bodily change, formed a discharging path standing at its disposal. We
subsequently discussed the psychic results of a feeling of gratification, and we might at the same time
have introduced the second assumption, viz. that accumulation of excitement—following certain
modalities that do not concern us—is perceived as pain and sets the apparatus in motion in order to
reproduce a feeling of gratification in which the diminution of the excitement is perceived as pleasure.
Such a current in the apparatus which emanates from pain and strives for pleasure we call a wish. We
have said that nothing but a wish is capable of setting the apparatus in motion, and that the discharge
of excitement in the apparatus is regulated automatically by the perception of pleasure and pain. The
first wish must have been an hallucinatory occupation of the memory for gratification. But this
hallucination, unless it were maintained to the point of exhaustion, proved incapable of bringing about
a cessation of the desire and consequently of securing the pleasure connected with gratification.
Thus there was required a second activity—in our terminology the activity of a second system—which
should not permit the memory occupation to advance to perception and therefrom to restrict the
psychic forces, but should lead the excitement emanating from the craving stimulus by a devious path
over the spontaneous motility which ultimately should so change the outer world as to allow the real
perception of the object of gratification to take place. Thus far we have elaborated the plan of the
psychic apparatus; these two systems are the germ of the Unc. and Forec, which we include in the fully
developed apparatus.
In order to be in a position successfully to change the outer world through the motility, there is
required the accumulation of a large sum of experiences in the memory systems as well as a manifold
fixation of the relations which are evoked in this memory material by different end-presentations. We
now proceed further with our assumption. The manifold activity of the second system, tentatively
sending forth and retracting energy, must on the one hand have full command over all memory
material, but on the other hand it would be a superfluous expenditure for it to send to the individual
mental paths large quantities of energy which would thus flow off to no purpose, diminishing the
quantity available for the transformation of the outer world. In the interests of expediency I therefore
postulate that the second system succeeds in maintaining the greater part of the occupation energy in a
dormant state and in using but a small portion for the purposes of displacement. The mechanism of
these processes is entirely unknown to me; any one who wishes to follow up these ideas must try to
find the physical analogies and prepare the way for a demonstration of the process of motion in the
stimulation of the neuron. I merely hold to the idea that the activity of the first Ψ-system is directed to
the free outflow of the quantities of excitement, and that the second system brings about an inhibition
of this outflow through the energies emanating from it, i.e. it produces a transformation into dormant
energy, probably by raising the level. I therefore assume that under the control of the second system as
compared with the first, the course of the excitement is bound to entirely different mechanical
conditions. After the second system has finished its tentative mental work, it removes the inhibition
and congestion of the excitements and allows these excitements to flow off to the motility.
An interesting train of thought now presents itself if we consider the relations of this inhibition of
discharge by the second system to the regulation through the principle of pain. Let us now seek the
counterpart of the primary feeling of gratification, namely, the objective feeling of fear. A perceptive
stimulus acts on the primitive apparatus, becoming the source of a painful emotion. This will then be
followed by irregular motor manifestations until one of these withdraws the apparatus from perception
and at the same time from pain, but on the reappearance of the perception this manifestation will
immediately repeat itself (perhaps as a movement of flight) until the perception has again disappeared.
But there will here remain no tendency again to occupy the perception of the source of pain in the form
of an hallucination or in any other form. On the contrary, there will be a tendency in the primary
apparatus to abandon the painful memory picture as soon as it is in any way awakened, as the overflow
of its excitement would surely produce (more precisely, begin to produce) pain. The deviation from
memory, which is but a repetition of the former flight from perception, is facilitated also by the fact
that, unlike perception, memory does not possess sufficient quality to excite consciousness and thereby
to attract to itself new energy. This easy and regularly occurring deviation of the psychic process from
the former painful memory presents to us the model and the first example of psychic repression. As is
generally known, much of this deviation from the painful, much of the behavior of the ostrich, can be
readily demonstrated even in the normal psychic life of adults.
By virtue of the principle of pain the first system is therefore altogether incapable of introducing
anything unpleasant into the mental associations. The system cannot do anything but wish. If this
remained so the mental activity of the second system, which should have at its disposal all the
memories stored up by experiences, would be hindered. But two ways are now opened: the work of the
second system either frees itself completely from the principle of pain and continues its course, paying
no heed to the painful reminiscence, or it contrives to occupy the painful memory in such a manner as
to preclude the liberation of pain. We may reject the first possibility, as the principle of pain also
manifests itself as a regulator for the emotional discharge of the second system; we are, therefore,
directed to the second possibility, namely, that this system occupies a reminiscence in such a manner
as to inhibit its discharge and hence, also, to inhibit the discharge comparable to a motor innervation
for the development of pain. Thus from two starting points we are led to the hypothesis that occupation
through the second system is at the same time an inhibition for the emotional discharge, viz. from a
consideration of the principle of pain and from the principle of the smallest expenditure of innervation.
Let us, however, keep to the fact—this is the key to the theory of repression—that the second system is
capable of occupying an idea only when it is in position to check the development of pain emanating
from it. Whatever withdraws itself from this inhibition also remains inaccessible for the second system
and would soon be abandoned by virtue of the principle of pain. The inhibition of pain, however, need
not be complete; it must be permitted to begin, as it indicates to the second system the nature of the
memory and possibly its defective adaptation for the purpose sought by the mind.
The psychic process which is admitted by the first system only I shall now call the primary process;
and the one resulting from the inhibition of the second system I shall call the secondary process. I
show by another point for what purpose the second system is obliged to correct the primary process.
The primary process strives for a discharge of the excitement in order to establish a perception identity
with the sum of excitement thus gathered; the secondary process has abandoned this intention and
undertaken instead the task of bringing about a thought identity. All thinking is only a circuitous path
from the memory of gratification taken as an end-presentation to the identical occupation of the same
memory, which is again to be attained on the track of the motor experiences. The state of thinking
must take an interest in the connecting paths between the presentations without allowing itself to be
misled by their intensities. But it is obvious that condensations and intermediate or compromise
formations occurring in the presentations impede the attainment of this end-identity; by substituting
one idea for the other they deviate from the path which otherwise would have been continued from the
original idea. Such processes are therefore carefully avoided in the secondary thinking. Nor is it
difficult to understand that the principle of pain also impedes the progress of the mental stream in its
pursuit of the thought identity, though, indeed, it offers to the mental stream the most important points
of departure. Hence the tendency of the thinking process must be to free itself more and more from
exclusive adjustment by the principle of pain, and through the working of the mind to restrict the
affective development to that minimum which is necessary as a signal. This refinement of the activity
must have been attained through a recent over-occupation of energy brought about by consciousness.
But we are aware that this refinement is seldom completely successful even in the most normal psychic
life and that our thoughts ever remain accessible to falsification through the interference of the
principle of pain.
This, however, is not the breach in the functional efficiency of our psychic apparatus through which
the thoughts forming the material of the secondary mental work are enabled to make their way into the
primary psychic process—with which formula we may now describe the work leading to the dream
and to the hysterical symptoms. This case of insufficiency results from the union of the two factors
from the history of our evolution; one of which belongs solely to the psychic apparatus and has exerted
a determining influence on the relation of the two systems, while the other operates fluctuatingly and
introduces motive forces of organic origin into the psychic life. Both originate in the infantile life and
result from the transformation which our psychic and somatic organism has undergone since the
infantile period.
When I termed one of the psychic processes in the psychic apparatus the primary process, I did so not
only in consideration of the order of precedence and capability, but also as admitting the temporal
relations to a share in the nomenclature. As far as our knowledge goes there is no psychic apparatus
possessing only the primary process, and in so far it is a theoretic fiction; but so much is based on fact
that the primary processes are present in the apparatus from the beginning, while the secondary
processes develop gradually in the course of life, inhibiting and covering the primary ones, and gaining
complete mastery over them perhaps only at the height of life. Owing to this retarded appearance of
the secondary processes, the essence of our being, consisting in unconscious wish feelings, can neither
be seized nor inhibited by the foreconscious, whose part is once for all restricted to the indication of
the most suitable paths for the wish feelings originating in the unconscious. These unconscious wishes
establish for all subsequent psychic efforts a compulsion to which they have to submit and which they
must strive if possible to divert from its course and direct to higher aims. In consequence of this
retardation of the foreconscious occupation a large sphere of the memory material remains
inaccessible.
Among these indestructible and unincumbered wish feelings originating from the infantile life, there
are also some, the fulfillments of which have entered into a relation of contradiction to the end-
presentation of the secondary thinking. The fulfillment of these wishes would no longer produce an
affect of pleasure but one of pain; and it is just this transformation of affect that constitutes the nature
of what we designate as "repression," in which we recognize the infantile first step of passing adverse
sentence or of rejecting through reason. To investigate in what way and through what motive forces
such a transformation can be produced constitutes the problem of repression, which we need here only
skim over. It will suffice to remark that such a transformation of affect occurs in the course of
development (one may think of the appearance in infantile life of disgust which was originally absent),
and that it is connected with the activity of the secondary system. The memories from which the
unconscious wish brings about the emotional discharge have never been accessible to the Forec., and
for that reason their emotional discharge cannot be inhibited. It is just on account of this affective
development that these ideas are not even now accessible to the foreconscious thoughts to which they
have transferred their wishing power. On the contrary, the principle of pain comes into play, and
causes the Forec. to deviate from these thoughts of transference. The latter, left to themselves, are
"repressed," and thus the existence of a store of infantile memories, from the very beginning
withdrawn from the Forec., becomes the preliminary condition of repression.
In the most favorable case the development of pain terminates as soon as the energy has been
withdrawn from the thoughts of transference in the Forec., and this effect characterizes the intervention
of the principle of pain as expedient. It is different, however, if the repressed unconscious wish
receives an organic enforcement which it can lend to its thoughts of transference and through which it
can enable them to make an effort towards penetration with their excitement, even after they have been
abandoned by the occupation of the Forec. A defensive struggle then ensues, inasmuch as the Forec.
reinforces the antagonism against the repressed ideas, and subsequently this leads to a penetration by
the thoughts of transference (the carriers of the unconscious wish) in some form of compromise
through symptom formation. But from the moment that the suppressed thoughts are powerfully
occupied by the unconscious wish-feeling and abandoned by the foreconscious occupation, they
succumb to the primary psychic process and strive only for motor discharge; or, if the path be free, for
hallucinatory revival of the desired perception identity. We have previously found, empirically, that
the incorrect processes described are enacted only with thoughts that exist in the repression. We now
grasp another part of the connection. These incorrect processes are those that are primary in the
psychic apparatus; they appear wherever thoughts abandoned by the foreconscious occupation are left
to themselves, and can fill themselves with the uninhibited energy, striving for discharge from the
unconscious. We may add a few further observations to support the view that these processes
designated "incorrect" are really not falsifications of the normal defective thinking, but the modes of
activity of the psychic apparatus when freed from inhibition. Thus we see that the transference of the
foreconscious excitement to the motility takes place according to the same processes, and that the
connection of the foreconscious presentations with words readily manifest the same displacements and
mixtures which are ascribed to inattention. Finally, I should like to adduce proof that an increase of
work necessarily results from the inhibition of these primary courses from the fact that we gain
a comical effect, a surplus to be discharged through laughter, if we allow these streams of thought to
come to consciousness.
The theory of the psychoneuroses asserts with complete certainty that only sexual wish-feelings from
the infantile life experience repression (emotional transformation) during the developmental period of
childhood. These are capable of returning to activity at a later period of development, and then have
the faculty of being revived, either as a consequence of the sexual constitution, which is really formed
from the original bisexuality, or in consequence of unfavorable influences of the sexual life; and they
thus supply the motive power for all psychoneurotic symptom formations. It is only by the introduction
of these sexual forces that the gaps still demonstrable in the theory of repression can be filled. I will
leave it undecided whether the postulate of the sexual and infantile may also be asserted for the theory
of the dream; I leave this here unfinished because I have already passed a step beyond the
demonstrable in assuming that thedream-wish invariably originates from the unconscious. 2 Nor will I
further investigate the difference in the play of the psychic forces in the dream formation and in the
formation of the hysterical symptoms, for to do this we ought to possess a more explicit knowledge of
one of the members to be compared. But I regard another point as important, and will here confess that
it was on account of this very point that I have just undertaken this entire discussion concerning the
two psychic systems, their modes of operation, and the repression. For it is now immaterial whether I
have conceived the psychological relations in question with approximate correctness, or, as is easily
possible in such a difficult matter, in an erroneous and fragmentary manner. Whatever changes may be
made in the interpretation of the psychic censor and of the correct and of the abnormal elaboration of
the dream content, the fact nevertheless remains that such processes are active in dream formation, and
that essentially they show the closest analogy to the processes observed in the formation of the
hysterical symptoms. The dream is not a pathological phenomenon, and it does not leave behind an
enfeeblement of the mental faculties. The objection that no deduction can be drawn regarding the
dreams of healthy persons from my own dreams and from those of neurotic patients may be rejected
without comment. Hence, when we draw conclusions from the phenomena as to their motive forces,
we recognize that the psychic mechanism made use of by the neuroses is not created by a morbid
disturbance of the psychic life, but is found ready in the normal structure of the psychic apparatus. The
two psychic systems, the censor crossing between them, the inhibition and the covering of the one
activity by the other, the relations of both to consciousness—or whatever may offer a more correct
interpretation of the actual conditions in their stead—all these belong to the normal structure of our
psychic instrument, and the dream points out for us one of the roads leading to a knowledge of this
structure. If, in addition to our knowledge, we wish to be contented with a minimum perfectly
established, we shall say that the dream gives us proof that the suppressed, material continues to exist
even in the normal person and remains capable of psychic activity. The dream itself is one of the
manifestations of this suppressed material; theoretically, this is true in all cases; according to
substantial experience it is true in at least a great number of such as most conspicuously display the
prominent characteristics of dream life. The suppressed psychic material, which in the waking state has
been prevented from expression and cut off from internal perception by the antagonistic adjustment of
the contradictions, finds ways and means of obtruding itself on consciousness during the night under
the domination of the compromise formations.
"Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo."
At any rate the interpretation of dreams is the via regia to a knowledge of the unconscious in the
psychic life.
In following the analysis of the dream we have made some progress toward an understanding of the
composition of this most marvelous and most mysterious of instruments; to be sure, we have not gone
very far, but enough of a beginning has been made to allow us to advance from other so-called
pathological formations further into the analysis of the unconscious. Disease—at least that which is
justly termed functional—is not due to the destruction of this apparatus, and the establishment of new
splittings in its interior; it is rather to be explained dynamically through the strengthening and
weakening of the components in the play of forces by which so many activities are concealed during
the normal function. We have been able to show in another place how the composition of the apparatus
from the two systems permits a subtilization even of the normal activity which would be impossible
for a single system.
Footnote 1: Cf. the significant observations by J. Bueuer in our Studies on Hysteria, 1895, and 2nd ed. 1909.
Footnote 2: Here, as in other places, there are gaps in the treatment of the subject, which I have left intentionally,
because to fill them up would require on the one hand too great effort, and on the other hand an extensive reference
to material that is foreign to the dream. Thus I have avoided stating whether I connect with the word "suppressed"
another sense than with the word "repressed." It has been made clear only that the latter emphasizes more than the
former the relation to the unconscious. I have not entered into the cognate problem why the dream thoughts also
experience distortion by the censor when they abandon the progressive continuation to consciousness and choose
the path of regression. I have been above all anxious to awaken an interest in the problems to which the further
analysis of the dreamwork leads and to indicate the other themes which meet these on the way. It was not always
easy to decide just where the pursuit should be discontinued. That I have not treated exhaustively the part played in
the dream by the psychosexual life and have avoided the interpretation of dreams of an obvious sexual content is
due to a special reason which may not come up to the reader's expectation. To be sure, it is very far from my ideas
and the principles expressed by me in neuropathology to regard the sexual life as a "pudendum" which should be
left unconsidered by the physician and the scientific investigator. I also consider ludicrous the moral indignation
which prompted the translator of Artemidoros of Daldis to keep from the reader's knowledge the chapter on sexual
dreams contained in the Symbolism of the Dreams. As for myself, I have been actuated solely by the conviction that
in the explanation of sexual dreams I should be bound to entangle myself deeply in the still unexplained problems
of perversion and bisexuality; and for that reason I have reserved this material for another connection.
IX
THE UNCONSCIOUS AND CONSCIOUSNESS—REALITY
On closer inspection we find that it is not the existence of two systems near the motor end of the
apparatus but of two kinds of processes or modes of emotional discharge, the assumption of which was
explained in the psychological discussions of the previous chapter. This can make no difference for us,
for we must always be ready to drop our auxiliary ideas whenever we deem ourselves in position to
replace them by something else approaching more closely to the unknown reality. Let us now try to
correct some views which might be erroneously formed as long as we regarded the two systems in the
crudest and most obvious sense as two localities within the psychic apparatus, views which have left
their traces in the terms "repression" and "penetration." Thus, when we say that an unconscious idea
strives for transference into the foreconscious in order later to penetrate consciousness, we do not
mean that a second idea is to be formed situated in a new locality like an interlineation near which the
original continues to remain; also, when we speak of penetration into consciousness, we wish carefully
to avoid any idea of change of locality. When we say that a foreconscious idea is repressed and
subsequently taken up by the unconscious, we might be tempted by these figures, borrowed from the
idea of a struggle over a territory, to assume that an arrangement is really broken up in one psychic
locality and replaced by a new one in the other locality. For these comparisons we substitute what
would seem to correspond better with the real state of affairs by saying that an energy occupation is
displaced to or withdrawn from a certain arrangement so that the psychic formation falls under the
domination of a system or is withdrawn from the same. Here again we replace a topical mode of
presentation by a dynamic; it is not the psychic formation that appears to us as the moving factor but
the innervation of the same.
I deem it appropriate and justifiable, however, to apply ourselves still further to the illustrative
conception of the two systems. We shall avoid any misapplication of this manner of representation if
we remember that presentations, thoughts, and psychic formations should generally not be localized in
the organic elements of the nervous system, but, so to speak, between them, where resistances
and paths form the correlate corresponding to them. Everything that can become an object of our
internal perception is virtual, like the image in the telescope produced by the passage of the rays of
light. But we are justified in assuming the existence of the systems, which have nothing psychic in
themselves and which never become accessible to our psychic perception, corresponding to the lenses
of the telescope which design the image. If we continue this comparison, we may say that the censor
between two systems corresponds to the refraction of rays during their passage into a new medium.
Thus far we have made psychology on our own responsibility; it is now time to examine the theoretical
opinions governing present-day psychology and to test their relation to our theories. The question of
the unconscious, in psychology is, according to the authoritative words of Lipps, less a psychological
question than the question of psychology. As long as psychology settled this question with the verbal
explanation that the "psychic" is the "conscious" and that "unconscious psychic occurrences" are an
obvious contradiction, a psychological estimate of the observations gained by the physician from
abnormal mental states was precluded. The physician and the philosopher agree only when
bothacknowledge that unconscious psychic processes are "the appropriate and well-justified
expression for an established fact." The physician cannot but reject with a shrug of his shoulders the
assertion that "consciousness is the indispensable quality of the psychic"; he may assume, if his respect
for the utterings of the philosophers still be strong enough, that he and they do not treat the same
subject and do not pursue the same science. For a single intelligent observation of the psychic life of a
neurotic, a single analysis of a dream must force upon him the unalterable conviction that the most
complicated and correct mental operations, to which no one will refuse the name of psychic
occurrences, may take place without exciting the consciousness of the person. It is true that the
physician does not learn of these unconscious processes until they have exerted such an effect on
consciousness as to admit communication or observation. But this effect of consciousness may show a
psychic character widely differing from the unconscious process, so that the internal perception cannot
possibly recognize the one as a substitute for the other. The physician must reserve for himself the
right to penetrate, by a process of deduction, from the effect on consciousness to the unconscious
psychic process; he learns in this way that the effect on consciousness is only a remote psychic product
of the unconscious process and that the latter has not become conscious as such; that it has been in
existence and operative without betraying itself in any way to consciousness.
A reaction from the over-estimation of the quality of consciousness becomes the indispensable
preliminary condition for any correct insight into the behavior of the psychic. In the words of Lipps,
the unconscious must be accepted as the general basis of the psychic life. The unconscious is the larger
circle which includes within itself the smaller circle of the conscious; everything conscious has its
preliminary step in the unconscious, whereas the unconscious may stop with this step and still claim
full value as a psychic activity. Properly speaking, the unconscious is the real psychic; its inner nature
is just as unknown to us as the reality of the external world, and it is just as imperfectly reported to us
through the data of consciousness as is the external world through the indications of our sensory
organs.
A series of dream problems which have intensely occupied older authors will be laid aside when the
old opposition between conscious life and dream life is abandoned and the unconscious psychic
assigned to its proper place. Thus many of the activities whose performances in the dream have excited
our admiration are now no longer to be attributed to the dream but to unconscious thinking, which is
also active during the day. If, according to Scherner, the dream seems to play with a symboling
representation of the body, we know that this is the work of certain unconscious phantasies which have
probably given in to sexual emotions, and that these phantasies come to expression not only in dreams
but also in hysterical phobias and in other symptoms. If the dream continues and settles activities of
the day and even brings to light valuable inspirations, we have only to subtract from it the dream
disguise as a feat of dream-work and a mark of assistance from obscure forces in the depth of the mind
(cf. the devil in Tartini's sonata dream). The intellectual task as such must be attributed to the same
psychic forces which perform all such tasks during the day. We are probably far too much inclined to
over-estimate the conscious character even of intellectual and artistic productions. From the
communications of some of the most highly productive persons, such as Goethe and Helmholtz, we
learn, indeed, that the most essential and original parts in their creations came to them in the form of
inspirations and reached their perceptions almost finished. There is nothing strange about the
assistance of the conscious activity in other cases where there was a concerted effort of all the psychic
forces. But it is a much abused privilege of the conscious activity that it is allowed to hide from us all
other activities wherever it participates.
It will hardly be worth while to take up the historical significance of dreams as a special subject.
Where, for instance, a chieftain has been urged through a dream to engage in a bold undertaking the
success of which has had the effect of changing history, a new problem results only so long as the
dream, regarded as a strange power, is contrasted with other more familiar psychic forces; the problem,
however, disappears when we regard the dream as a form of expression for feelings which are
burdened with resistance during the day and which can receive reinforcements at night from deep
emotional sources. But the great respect shown by the ancients for the dream is based on a correct
psychological surmise. It is a homage paid to the unsubdued and indestructible in the human mind, and
to the demoniacal which furnishes the dream-wish and which we find again in our unconscious.
Not inadvisedly do I use the expression "in our unconscious," for what we so designate does not
coincide with the unconscious of the philosophers, nor with the unconscious of Lipps. In the latter uses
it is intended to designate only the opposite of conscious. That there are also unconscious psychic
processes beside the conscious ones is the hotly contested and energetically defended issue. Lipps
gives us the more far-reaching theory that everything psychic exists as unconscious, but that some of it
may exist also as conscious. But it was not to prove this theory that we have adduced the phenomena
of the dream and of the hysterical symptom formation; the observation of normal life alone suffices to
establish its correctness beyond any doubt. The new fact that we have learned from the analysis of the
psychopathological formations, and indeed from their first member, viz. dreams, is that the
unconscious—hence the psychic—occurs as a function of two separate systems and that it occurs as
such even in normal psychic life. Consequently there are two kinds of unconscious, which we do not
as yet find distinguished by the psychologists. Both are unconscious in the psychological sense; but in
our sense the first, which we call Unc., is likewise incapable of consciousness, whereas the second we
term "Forec." because its emotions, after the observance of certain rules, can reach consciousness,
perhaps not before they have again undergone censorship, but still regardless of the Unc. system. The
fact that in order to attain consciousness the emotions must traverse an unalterable series of events or
succession of instances, as is betrayed through their alteration by the censor, has helped us to draw a
comparison from spatiality. We described the relations of the two systems to each other and to
consciousness by saying that the system Forec. is like a screen between the system Unc. and
consciousness. The system Forec. not only bars access to consciousness, but also controls the entrance
to voluntary motility and is capable of sending out a sum of mobile energy, a portion of which is
familiar to us as attention.
We must also steer clear of the distinctions superconscious and subconscious which have found so
much favor in the more recent literature on the psychoneuroses, for just such a distinction seems to
emphasize the equivalence of the psychic and the conscious.
What part now remains in our description of the once all-powerful and all-overshadowing
consciousness? None other than that of a sensory organ for the perception of psychic qualities.
According to the fundamental idea of schematic undertaking we can conceive the conscious perception
only as the particular activity of an independent system for which the abbreviated designation "Cons."
commends itself. This system we conceive to be similar in its mechanical characteristics to the
perception system P, hence excitable by qualities and incapable of retaining the trace of changes, i.e. it
is devoid of memory. The psychic apparatus which, with the sensory organs of the P-system, is turned
to the outer world, is itself the outer world for the sensory organ of Cons.; the teleological justification
of which rests on this relationship. We are here once more confronted with the principle of the
succession of instances which seems to dominate the structure of the apparatus. The material under
excitement flows to the Cons, sensory organ from two sides, firstly from the P-system whose
excitement, qualitatively determined, probably experiences a new elaboration until it comes to
conscious perception; and, secondly, from the interior of the apparatus itself, the quantitative processes
of which are perceived as a qualitative series of pleasure and pain as soon as they have undergone
certain changes.
The philosophers, who have learned that correct and highly complicated thought structures are possible
even without the coöperation of consciousness, have found it difficult to attribute any function to
consciousness; it has appeared to them a superfluous mirroring of the perfected psychic process. The
analogy of our Cons. system with the systems of perception relieves us of this embarrassment. We see
that perception through our sensory organs results in directing the occupation of attention to those
paths on which the incoming sensory excitement is diffused; the qualitative excitement of the P-system
serves the mobile quantity of the psychic apparatus as a regulator for its discharge. We may claim the
same function for the overlying sensory organ of the Cons. system. By assuming new qualities, it
furnishes a new contribution toward the guidance and suitable distribution of the mobile occupation
quantities. By means of the perceptions of pleasure and pain, it influences the course of the
occupations within the psychic apparatus, which normally operates unconsciously and through the
displacement of quantities. It is probable that the principle of pain first regulates the displacements of
occupation automatically, but it is quite possible that the consciousness of these qualities adds a second
and more subtle regulation which may even oppose the first and perfect the working capacity of the
apparatus by placing it in a position contrary to its original design for occupying and developing even
that which is connected with the liberation of pain. We learn from neuropsychology that an important
part in the functional activity of the apparatus is attributed to such regulations through the qualitative
excitation of the sensory organs. The automatic control of the primary principle of pain and the
restriction of mental capacity connected with it are broken by the sensible regulations, which in their
turn are again automatisms. We learn that the repression which, though originally expedient,
terminates nevertheless in a harmful rejection of inhibition and of psychic domination, is so much
more easily accomplished with reminiscences than with perceptions, because in the former there is no
increase in occupation through the excitement of the psychic sensory organs. When an idea to be
rejected has once failed to become conscious because it has succumbed to repression, it can be
repressed on other occasions only because it has been withdrawn from conscious perception on other
grounds. These are hints employed by therapy in order to bring about a retrogression of accomplished
repressions.
The value of the over-occupation which is produced by the regulating influence of the Cons. sensory
organ on the mobile quantity, is demonstrated in the teleological connection by nothing more clearly
than by the creation of a new series of qualities and consequently a new regulation which constitutes
the precedence of man over the animals. For the mental processes are in themselves devoid of quality
except for the excitements of pleasure and pain accompanying them, which, as we know, are to be held
in check as possible disturbances of thought. In order to endow them with a quality, they are associated
in man with verbal memories, the qualitative remnants of which suffice to draw upon them the
attention of consciousness which in turn endows thought with a new mobile energy.
The manifold problems of consciousness in their entirety can be examined only through an analysis of
the hysterical mental process. From this analysis we receive the impression that the transition from the
foreconscious to the occupation of consciousness is also connected with a censorship similar to the one
between the Unc. and the Forec. This censorship, too, begins to act only with the reaching of a certain
quantitative degree, so that few intense thought formations escape it. Every possible case of detention
from consciousness, as well as of penetration to consciousness, under restriction is found included
within the picture of the psychoneurotic phenomena; every case points to the intimate and twofold
connection between the censor and consciousness. I shall conclude these psychological discussions
with the report of two such occurrences.
On the occasion of a consultation a few years ago the subject was an intelligent and innocent-looking
girl. Her attire was strange; whereas a woman's garb is usually groomed to the last fold, she had one of
her stockings hanging down and two of her waist buttons opened. She complained of pains in one of
her legs, and exposed her leg unrequested. Her chief complaint, however, was in her own words as
follows: She had a feeling in her body as if something was stuck into it which moved to and fro and
made her tremble through and through. This sometimes made her whole body stiff. On hearing this,
my colleague in consultation looked at me; the complaint was quite plain to him. To both of us it
seemed peculiar that the patient's mother thought nothing of the matter; of course she herself must
have been repeatedly in the situation described by her child. As for the girl, she had no idea of the
import of her words or she would never have allowed them to pass her lips. Here the censor had been
deceived so successfully that under the mask of an innocent complaint a phantasy was admitted to
consciousness which otherwise would have remained in the foreconscious.
Another example: I began the psychoanalytic treatment of a boy of fourteen years who was suffering
from tic convulsif, hysterical vomiting, headache, &c., by assuring him that, after closing his eyes, he
would see pictures or have ideas, which I requested him to communicate to me. He answered by
describing pictures. The last impression he had received before coming to me was visually revived in
his memory. He had played a game of checkers with his uncle, and now saw the checkerboard before
him. He commented on various positions that were favorable or unfavorable, on moves that were not
safe to make. He then saw a dagger lying on the checker-board, an object belonging to his father, but
transferred to the checker-board by his phantasy. Then a sickle was lying on the board; next a scythe
was added; and, finally, he beheld the likeness of an old peasant mowing the grass in front of the boy's
distant parental home. A few days later I discovered the meaning of this series of pictures.
Disagreeable family relations had made the boy nervous. It was the case of a strict and crabbed father
who lived unhappily with his mother, and whose educational methods consisted in threats; of the
separation of his father from his tender and delicate mother, and the remarrying of his father, who one
day brought home a young woman as his new mamma. The illness of the fourteen-year-old boy broke
out a few days later. It was the suppressed anger against his father that had composed these pictures
into intelligible allusions. The material was furnished by a reminiscence from mythology, The sickle
was the one with which Zeus castrated his father; the scythe and the likeness of the peasant represented
Kronos, the violent old man who eats his children and upon whom Zeus wreaks vengeance in so
unfilial a manner. The marriage of the father gave the boy an opportunity to return the reproaches and
threats of his father—which had previously been made because the child played with his genitals (the
checkerboard; the prohibitive moves; the dagger with which a person may be killed). We have here
long repressed memories and their unconscious remnants which, under the guise of senseless pictures
have slipped into consciousness by devious paths left open to them.
I should then expect to find the theoretical value of the study of dreams in its contribution to
psychological knowledge and in its preparation for an understanding of neuroses. Who can foresee the
importance of a thorough knowledge of the structure and activities of the psychic apparatus when even
our present state of knowledge produces a happy therapeutic influence in the curable forms of the
psychoneuroses? What about the practical value of such study some one may ask, for psychic
knowledge and for the discovering of the secret peculiarities of individual character? Have not the
unconscious feelings revealed by the dream the value of real forces in the psychic life? Should we take
lightly the ethical significance of the suppressed wishes which, as they now create dreams, may some
day create other things?
I do not feel justified in answering these questions. I have not thought further upon this side of the
dream problem. I believe, however, that at all events the Roman Emperor was in the wrong who
ordered one of his subjects executed because the latter dreamt that he had killed the Emperor. He
should first have endeavored to discover the significance of the dream; most probably it was not what
it seemed to be. And even if a dream of different content had the significance of this offense against
majesty, it would still have been in place to remember the words of Plato, that the virtuous man
contents himself with dreaming that which the wicked man does in actual life. I am therefore of the
opinion that it is best to accord freedom to dreams. Whether any reality is to be attributed to the
unconscious wishes, and in what sense, I am not prepared to say offhand. Reality must naturally be
denied to all transition—and intermediate thoughts. If we had before us the unconscious wishes,
brought to their last and truest expression, we should still do well to remember that more than one
single form of existence must be ascribed to the psychic reality.Action and the conscious expression of
thought mostly suffice for the practical need of judging a man's character. Action, above all, merits to
be placed in the first rank; for many of the impulses penetrating consciousness are neutralized by real
forces of the psychic life before they are converted into action; indeed, the reason why they frequently
do not encounter any psychic obstacle on their way is because the unconscious is certain of their
meeting with resistances later. In any case it is instructive to become familiar with the much raked-up
soil from which our virtues proudly arise. For the complication of human character moving
dynamically in all directions very rarely accommodates itself to adjustment through a simple
alternative, as our antiquated moral philosophy would have it.
And how about the value of the dream for a knowledge of the future? That, of course, we cannot
consider. One feels inclined to substitute: "for a knowledge of the past." For the dream originates from
the past in every sense. To be sure the ancient belief that the dream reveals the future is not entirely
devoid of truth. By representing to us a wish as fulfilled the dream certainly leads us into the future;
but this future, taken by the dreamer as present, has been formed into the likeness of that past by the
indestructible wish.
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AFTER China, where next? Over the past two decades, the world’s most populous country
has become the market qua non of just about every global company seeking growth. As its
economy slows, businesses are looking for the next set of consumers to keep the tills
ringing.
To many, India feels like the heir apparent. Its population will soon overtake its Asian
rival’s. It occasionally grows at the kind of pace that propelled China to the status of
economic superpower. And its middle class is thought by many to be in the early stages of
the journey to prosperity that created hundreds of millions of Chinese consumers. Exuberant
management consultants speak of a 300m-400m horde of potential frapuccino-sippers,
Fiesta-drivers and globe-trotters. Rare is the chief executive who, upon visiting India, does
not proclaim it as central to his or her plans. Some of that may be a diplomatic dose of
flattery; much of it, from firms such as IKEA, SoftBank, Amazon and Starbucks, is
sincerely meant.
Hold your elephants. The Indian middle class conjured up by the marketers and consultants
scarcely exists. Firms peddling anything much beyond soap, matches and phone-credit are
targeting a minuscule slice of the population (see article). The top 1% of Indian adults, a rich
enclave of 8m inhabitants making at least $20,000 a year, equates to roughly Hong Kong in
terms of population and average income. The next 9% is akin to central Europe, in the
middle of the global wealth pack. The next 40% of India’s population neatly mirrors its
combined South Asian poor neighbours, Bangladesh and Pakistan. The remaining half-
billion or so are on a par with the most destitute bits of Africa. To be sure, global companies
take the markets of central Europe seriously. Plenty of fortunes have been made there. But
they are no China.
Centre parting
Worse, the chances of India developing a middle class to match the Middle Kingdom’s are
being throttled by growing inequality. The top 1% of earners pocketed nearly a third of all
the extra income generated by economic growth between 1980 and 2014, according to new
research from economists including Thomas Piketty. The well-off are ten times richer now
than in 1980; those at the median have not even doubled their income. India has done a good
job at getting those earning below $2 a day (at purchasing-power parity) to $3, but it has not
matched other countries’ records in getting those on $3 a day to earning $5, those at $5 a day
to $10, and so on. Middle earners in countries at India’s stage of development usually take
more of the gains from growth. Eight in ten Indians cite inequality as a big problem, on a par
with corruption.
The reasons for this failure are not mysterious. Decades of statist intervention meant that
when a measure of liberalisation came in the early 1990s, only a few were able to benefit.
The workforce is woefully unproductive—no surprise given the abysmal state of India’s
education system, which churns out millions of adults equipped only for menial work. Its
graduates go on to toil in small or micro-enterprises, operating informally; these “employ”
93% of all Indians. The great swell of middle-class jobs that China created as it became the
workshop to the world is not to be found in India, because turning small businesses into
productive large ones is made nigh-on impossible by bureaucracy. The fact that barely a
quarter of women work—a share that has seen a precipitous decline in the past decade—
only makes matters worse.
Good policy can do an enormous amount to improve prospects. However, hope should be
tempered by realism. India is blessed with a deeply entrenched democratic system, but that
is no shield against poor decisions. The sudden and brutal “demonetisation” of the economy
in 2016 was meant to target fat cats, but ended up hurting everybody. And the path to
prosperity walked by China, where manufacturing produced the jobs that pushed up
incomes, is narrowing as automation limits opportunities for factory work.
All of which means that companies need to deal with the India that exists today rather than
the one they wish to emerge. A strategy of waiting for Indians to develop a taste for products
that the global middle class indulges in—cars as income per head crosses one threshold,
foreign holidays when it crosses the next—may lead to decades of frustration. Only 3% of
Indians have ever been on an aeroplane; only one in 45 owns a car or lorry. If nearly 300m
Indians count as “middle class”, as HSBC has proclaimed, some of them make around $3 a
day.
Big market, smaller opportunities
Companies would do better to “Indianise” their business by, for example, peddling wares
using regional languages preferred by hundreds of millions of Indians. Pricing matters.
Services proffered at the same price in India as Indiana will appeal to mere millions, not a
billion. Even for someone in the top 10% of Indian earners, an annual Netflix subscription
can cost over a week’s income; the equivalent in America would be around $3,000. Apple
ads may plaster Mumbai, Delhi and Bangalore, but for only one in ten Indians would the
latest iPhone represent less than half a year’s salary. The biggest consumer hits in India have
been goods and services that offer stonking value: scooters and mobile telephony have
grown fast, but only after prices tumbled.
The sharpest businesses work out which “enablers” will allow Indians to gain access to new
goods. Electrification drives demand for fridges. Cheap mobile data (India is in the midst of
a data-price war that has hugely benefited consumers) are a boon to streaming services.
Logistics networks put together by e-commerce giants are for the first time making it
possible for a consumer in a third-tier city to buy global fashion brands. A surge in
consumer financing has put desirable baubles within reach of more Indians.
Insofar as it is the job of politicians to create a consumer class, successive Indian

governments have largely failed. Businesses hoping the Indian middle class will provide
their next spurt of growth should be under no illusion. Companies will have to work very
hard to turn potential into profits.
30 Absolutely Insane Questions from China's Gaokao
Each year in the beginning of June, millions of students take the gaokao, China's National College Entrance
Examination. This week, more than nine million took the exam across China.
The lone criterion for admission into Chinese universities, the gaokao is a high-stakes exam on which students'
entire future depends.
Scored on a scale of 750 points with questions varying from province to province, the gaokao generally includes
tests of Chinese literature, mathematics and a foreign language (in most cases English).
Lasting nine hours over two days of grueling multiple choice, fill-in-the-blank and essay questions, the exam is
something students spend 12 years studying for in hopes of getting admission to their university of choice.
Just how difficult are the essays and fill-in-the-blank questions? We’ve compiled some real questions that have
appeared on recent tests.
(Click here to try out some multiple choice questions featured on recent exams).
Essays
Test takers are usually given two types of essays — “big” (700-800 words) and “micro” (150 words). Answers are
then graded by an evaluator.
Recent essays have come under fire for “perplexing” prompts. Students taking the gaokao in Hunan in 2013 were
baffled by the following topic: "It flies upward, and a voice asks if it is tired. It says 'No'.”
Another prompt on the same test said: “A father is cutting articles out of a newspaper while his child embraces him
and says, 'I'm willing to accompany you just like this.’”
"This is insane,” a netizen wrote of the bizarre questions. “Can somebody please tell me what these two topics are
supposed to mean?"
Those aren’t the only incredibly complex essay questions. Here are a few from recent years...
1. Relationships
During your time in high school, there must be something you cannot forget, be it a heated argument with your
classmates or the inspiration from others.
Some agency has carried out a research on the relationships between classmates in schools. The result shows that
60 percent of the students find the relationships consent, while 36 percent of them consider it OK, and 4 percent
thinks the relationship is unsatisfied. The reason of the intense relationship can be over self-awareness, personality
clashes or competition.
Another 72 percent of the students are quite confident about creating a harmonious atmosphere.
Choose your own angle and style to write an article with the given material. Do not digress from the material.
— 2013 National Gaokao
2. “How Would Thomas Edison react to the mobile phone?”
Material composition. The conversation between two scientists. How would Thomas Alva Edison react to the
mobile phone if he came to the 21st century? No less than 800 words, choose your own title.
— 2013 Beijing Gaokao
3. Donation
Write a composition on “donation”.
A person became a billionaire from scratch. He was generous and has devoted himself to charity. He then knew that
there were three poor families that lived very hard lives. He felt sympathy for the families and decided to donate for
them. One family was very grateful and accepted his donation. Another family hesitated but accepted at last and
declared that they would pay him back. The last family thanked him for his generosity but declined it as they
thought it was an alm.
— 2013 Guangdong Gaokao
4. George Bernard Shaw
Some men see things as they are and say why? I dream things that never were and say “Why not?”- George Bernard
Shaw. Write an essay on how you think of the words of Bernard Shaw.
The essay should be within 800 words.
— 2013 Anhui Gaokao
5. “The more important thing”
The more important thing.
People are always busy doing things that they think are important, but it seems there is always something more
important in the world. Write an essay on your opinion on the topic.
— 2013 Shanghai Gaokao
6. “Live a balanced life”
Choose a topic on “Live a balanced life”.
— 2013 Sichuan Gaokao
7. Sand and pearl
Sand and pearl.
A young man was depressed as his career stagnated. He met an old man by the seashore. The old man grabbed a
handful of sands and threw them on the seashore, then asked him, “Can you find them?” The young men said no.
Then the old man threw a pearl on seashore, and asked him the same question again. The young man said yes. Then
he had an epiphany: one should be something different before he got recognition.
— 2013 Liaoning Gaokao
8. “The subtle philosophy of the round and square”
The containers for milk are always square boxes; containers for mineral water are always round bottles; round wine
bottle are usually placed in square boxes. Write a composition on the subtle philosophy of the round and square.
— 2013 Hubei Gaokao
9. Micro Essays
Choose one question to answer in 150 words or less:
a) Review a Chinese classic
b) Write a poem on "circle"
c) Comment on uncivilized behavior in Beijing
— Beijing Gaokao, year unknown
10. Heroes and passion
Write an essay on either of the topics in no fewer than 700 words:
a) There are numerous heroes in Chinese history who set examples. Please write an essay with the title "If I were
given a chance to spend a day with my hero." Select a hero and imagine spending a day with him/her.
b) For what object you have a "passion deep in the soul?" You can choose a plant, an animal or a utensil to write
about.
— Beijing Gaokao, year unknown
11. Glamour
Please write an essay on the following:
Who do you think is the most glamorous person? A biotechnologist who led his company in international research,
an ordinary welder who gained international fame through his work, or a photographer complimented widely for a
series of photos?
— National Gaokao, year unknown
12. Social outcry
After a girl failed to dissuade her father from making phone calls while driving on a highway, she called the police.
The police came and educated her father. A huge social outcry followed. Please write a letter based on the given
information to the daughter, the father or the police officer, in no fewer than 800 words.
— National Gaokao, year unknown
13. Balancing toughness and softness
Everybody has tough and soft spots in his/her heart. Whether you can reach an inner harmony depends on how you
balance the toughness and softness. Please choose an angle and write an essay on this topic in 800 words or more.
— Shanghai Gaokao, year unknown
14. Wisdom vs. Honesty
An honest person may not be smart, yet a smart person may not have true wisdom. Please write an essay in no
fewer than 800 words on this topic.
— Sichuan Gaokao, year unknown
15. The Little Boy on the Bus
After getting on a bus, a little boy asked the bus driver to wait for his mother. A minute passed and the mother
didn't show up. Passengers complained loudly and the boy was brought to tears. When the mother finally caught up
with the bus, everybody went silent -- she is disabled. Write an essay in 800 words or more based on the given
information.
— Chongqing Gaokao, year unknown
16. Paths
Please write an essay based on three sentences given:
a) Originally there was no path in this world, but after many who have walked upon it, a path came into being.
b) Even if you choose a wrong way to go, it's a meaningful one anyway.
c) There's no path in the world that you can't walk upon; there are only people who dare not step on it.
— Fujian Gaokao, year unknown
17. Freedom
You are free because you may choose how to cross the desert; you are not free because you must cross the desert
either way. Write an 800-word essay on this.
— Gaokao year unknown
Fill-in-the-Blank
1. Math
To understand the academic performance of 1,000 students, the systematic sampling method is adopted to choose
40 samples. What should the sampling interval be?
2. Math
A tetrahedron’s edge length is √2 and its four points are on a sphere, so what is the sphere’s area?
3. Math
Given f (x) = sinx - (2sqrt(3))(sin^2(pi/2)):

A) Find f(x)’s smallest positive revolution
B) Find f(x)’s smallest value, given that the period is [0,2pi/3]
4. Math
As illustrated in the figure above,in the frame xOy, we have a line l :x-y-2=0 and a parabola C:y²=2px(p>0)
I) If l passes through the focus of the parabola C,find the equation of the parabola.
II) Given that there are two different points P and Q that is symmetrical about line l
1) Prove that the coordinates of the middle point of the line segment PQ is (2-p,-p)
2) Find the range of p.
— 2016 Jiangsu Gaokao
5. Math
Given an ellipse x²/9+y²/5=1 whose vertices are A and B and right focus F.Suppose that line TA and line TB which
pass through T(t,m) intersect the ellipse at M(x₁,y₁) and N(x₂,y₂) individually.(m>0,y₁>0,y₂<0)
1) Moving point P satisfies equation PF²-PB²=4,find the track of P.
2) Assume that x₁=2,x₂=1/3,find the cooordinates of T
3) Assume that t=9,prove that line MN must passes through a definite point on the x axis(whose coordinates are
independant of m)
6. Math
Assume a positive sequence {an},whose sum of the first n terms is Sn, given that 2an=a₁+a₃,sequence{√Sn} is an
Arithmetic Sequence with a common difference d.
1) Find the general formula of the sequence {an}(in n and d)
2) Assume c ∈R,for any positive integrals m,n and k that satisfy m+n=3k and m≠n,exists equality Sm+Sn>cSk
7. Math
Assume sequence {an} that satisfies |an-a(n+1)/2|≤1,n∈N+
1) Prove that|an|≥2^(n-1)(|a₁|-2)(n∈N*)
2) If |an|≤(3/2)^n,n∈N*, prove that |an|≤2,n∈N*
— 2016 Zhejiang Gaokao

8. Chemistry
Under the agency of catalyst, NH3 reacts with O2, so the chemical equation of I should be __________.
9. English
Walking will be banned on escalators as part of a trial designed to reduce congestion(拥堵) at some of the country’s
busiest stations.
In the first move of its kind, all travelers will be forced to stand on both sides of escalators on the London
Underground as part of a plan to increase capacity(容量) at the height of the rush hour.
A six-month trial will be introduced at Holborn station from mid-April, eliminating the rule of standing on the right
and walking on the left. The move, imitating a similar structure in Far eastern cities such as Hong Kong, is designed
to increase the number of people using long escalators at the busiest times. It could be expanded across the Tube
network in coming years.
According to London Underground, only 40 percent of travelers walk the full length of long escalators, leaving the
majority at the bottom as they wait to get on to the “standing “side.
A three-week trial at Holborn last year found that the number of people using escalators at any time of could be
raised by almost a third. Peter McNaught, operations director at London Underground, said: “It may not seem right
that you can go quicker by standing still, but our experiments at Holborn have proved that it can be true. This new
six-month trial will help us find out if we can influence customers to stand on both sides in the long term.”
Holborn has one of the longest sets of escalators on the Underground network at 23.4 high. Tube bosses claim that
capacity was limited because so few people wanted to walk up—meaning only one side was used at all times.
Research has shown that it is more effective use of escalators over 18.5 to ban walking.
The previous trial found that escalators at the station normally carried 2,500 people between 8:30am and 9:30am on
a typical day, rising to 3,250 during the researching period.
In the new trial, which will be launched from April 18, one of three “up” escalators will be standing only, with a
second banning walking at peak times. A third will remain a mix of walking and standing.
(Note: Answering the questions the questions or complete the statements in NO MORE THAN TEN WORDS.)
1. What is the existing problem with standing on the right and walking on the left?
2. What did last year’s three-week trial at Holborn station prove?
3.The research suggests that walking should be forbidden on escalators that are at least _________ in height.
4. In the new trail, in addition to one escalator banning walking in rush hours, the other “up” escalators will be used
for_________________.
10. English
Fill in the correct words to use in the blanks.
Stress: Good or Bad?
Stress used to be an almost unknown word, but now that we are used to talking about it, I have found that people
are beginning to get stressed about being stressed.
In recent years, stress (1)______(regard) as a cause of a whole range of medical problems, from high blood pressure
to mental illness. But like so many other things, it is only too much stress (2)______ does you harm. It is time you
considered that if there were no stress in your life, you would achieve a little. If you are stuck at home with no
stress, then your level of performance will be low. Up to a certain point, the more stress you are under, the (3)__
___(good) your performance will be. Beyond a certain point, though , further stress will only lead to exhaustion,
illness and finally a breakdown. You can tell when you are over the top and on the downward slope, by asking
yourself (4)_______ number of questions. Do you, for instance, feel that too much is being expected of (5)______,
and yet find it impossible to say no? Do you find yourself getting impatient of (6) _____(annoy) with people over
unimportant things?... If the answer to all those questions is yes, you had better (7)______(control) your stress, as
you probably are under more stress than is good for you.
To some extent you can control the amount of stress in your life. Doctors have worked out a chart showing how
much stress is involved in various events. Getting married is 50, pregnancy 40, moving house 20, Christmas 12, etc.
If the total stress in your life is over 150, you are twice as likely (8)_______ (get) ill.
11. English
Directions: Complete the following passage by using the words in the box. Each word can only be used once. Note
that there is one word more than you need.
Golden Rules of Good Design
What makes good design? Over the years, designers and artists have been trying to __ the essentials of good design.
They have found that some sayings can help people understand the ideas of good design. There are four as follows.
Less is more. This saying is associated with the German-born architect Mies van der Rohe. In his Modernist view,
beauty lies in simplicity and elegance, and the aim of the designer is to create solutions to problems through the
most efficient means. Design should avoid unnecessary ___.
More is not a bore. The American-born architect Robert Venturi concluded that if simplicity is done badly, the
result is ___ design. Post-Modernist designers began to ___ with decoration and color again. Product design was
heavily influenced by this view and can be seen in kitchen ___ such as ovens and kettles.
Fitness for purpose. Successful product design takes into consideration a product’s function, purpose, shape, form,
color, and so on. The most important result for the user is that the product does what is ___. For example, think of
a(n) ___ desk lamp. It needs to be constructed from materials that will stand the heat of the lamp and regular
adjustments by the user. It also needs to be stable. Most importantly, it needs to ___ light where it is needed.
From follows emotion. This phrase is associated with the German designer Hartmut Esslinger. He believes design
must take into ___ the sensory side of our nature—sight, smell, touch and taste. These are as important as
rational(理性的). When choosing everyday products such as toothpaste, we appreciate a cool-looking device that
allows us to easily ___ the toothpaste onto our brush.
A. account
B. adjustable
C. appliances
D. capture
E. decorations
F. direct
G. experiment
H. intended
I. operated
J. soulless
K. squeeze

12. History
After a lesson, a student learning the ancient Roman law system wants to know whether slaves, as the laws state,
were "excluded from laws [and] do not have any rights.” In reading a few sources during his research, he recorded
the following notes:
① Slavery refers to a person who is not a free person in Roman society and is legally regarded as a matter; a person
may become a slave by identity at birth and subject to criminal punishment or captured in war; slaves can be
liberated and become free. [1]
② The release of slaves was an important part of Roman law.
③ The Laws of the Twelve Tables contained all the relevant provisions. [2]
④ This indicates that there was a slavery phenomenon.
From the end of the Republican period to the Imperial System, the release of slaves became more common with the
expansion of the Roman Empire. In the Epistle of the Empire Justice, there were records about the release of a large
number of slaves. [3]
Historians say: "A common view in Roman Law is that although slavery is a legitimate social system, it contradicts
‘nature,’ and there are ancient Roman jurists that said "from civil law’s point of view, slaves are nothing, but
according to the natural law this is not true because all people are equal." [4]
Sources:
[1] Roman Law Dictionary

[2] Laws of the Twelve Tables, Fifth Table, Section 8, Article XI
[3] Letters of Pliny the Younger on the release of slaves
[4] Kovalov’s Ancient Roman History
Based on this information, answer the following questions:
1. Which of the above "sources" are historical data (as opposed to second-hand historical data)?
2. In the student’s notes (points ①,②,③ and ④), which are factual statements? And which statements are the
students’ own evaluations? (4 points)
3. Please help this student explain the reasons for the prevalence of the Roman Empire. (4 points)
13. Geography
Climate formation in North America is closely related to its natural geography. Study the picture below to answer
the question.
Based on a comprehensive analysis of the three categories of natural geography elements (A, B and C, pictured
above), name and describe the three types of climate formations [in North America].
Completely worn down by all those questions yet? Time to throw out those exam papers!
Question Sources: People’s Daily, CNN, Teen Vogue, Quora, That’s, Baidu
SUPERMAN COMES TO THE SUPERMARKET
In November 1960, Norman Mailer first tried his hand at a genre that would come to define his career. This is Mailer's debut into the world of political journalism, a
sprawling classic examining John F. Kennedy.
r once let us try to think about a political convention without losing ourselves in housing projects of fact and issue. Politics has its virtues, all too many of them—it
would not rank with baseball as a topic of conversation if it did not satisfy a great many things—but one can suspect that its secret appeal is close to nicotine. Smoking
cigarettes insulates one from one's life, one does not feel as much, often happily so, and politics quarantines one from history; most of the people who nourish themselves in
the political life are in the game not to make history but to be diverted from the history which is being made.
If that Democratic Convention which has now receded behind the brow of the summer of 1960 is only half-remembered in the excitements of moving toward the election, it
may be exactly the time to consider it again, because the mountain of facts which concealed its features last July has been blown away in the winds of High Television, and
the man-in-the-street (that peculiar political term which refers to the quixotic voter who will pull the lever for some reason so salient as: "I had a brown-nose lieutenant once
with Nixon's looks," or "that Kennedy must have false teeth"), the not so easily estimated man-in-the-street has forgotten most of what happened and could no more tell you
who Kennedy was fighting against than you or I could place a bet on who was leading the American League in batting during the month of June.
ADVERTISEMENT - CONTINUE READING BELOW

So to try to talk about what happened is easier now than in the days of the convention, one does not have to put everything in—an act of writing which calls for a bulldozer
rather than a pen—one can try to make one's little point and dress it with a ribbon or two of metaphor. All to the good. Because mysteries are irritated by facts, and the 1960
Democratic Convention began as one mystery and ended as another.
MOST OF THE PEOPLE WHO NOURISH THEMSELVES IN THE POLITICAL LIFE ARE IN THE GAME NOT TO MAKE HISTORY BUT TO BE
DIVERTED FROM THE HISTORY WHICH IS BEING MADE.
Since mystery is an emotion which is repugnant to a political animal (why else lead a life of bad banquet dinners, cigar smoke, camp chairs, foul breath, and excruciatingly
dull jargon if not to avoid the echoes of what is not known), the psychic separation between what was happening on the floor, in the caucus rooms, in the headquarters, and
what was happening in parallel to the history of the nation was mystery enough to drown the proceedings in gloom. It was on the one hand a dull convention, one of the less
interesting by general agreement, relieved by local bits of color, given two half hours of excitement by two demonstrations for Stevenson, buoyed up by the class of the
Kennedy machine, turned by the surprise of Johnson's nomination as vice-president, but, all the same, dull, depressed in its over-all tone, the big fiestas subdued, the gossip
flat, no real air of excitement, just moments—or as they say in bullfighting—details. Yet it was also, one could argue—and one may argue this yet—it was also one of the
most important conventions in America's history, it could prove conceivably to be the most important. The man it nominated was unlike any politician who had ever run for
President in the history of the land, and if elected he would come to power in a year when America was in danger of drifting into a profound decline.
Depression obviously has its several roots: it is the doubtful protection which comes from not recognizing failure, it is the psychic burden of exhaustion, and it is also, and
very often, the discipline of the will or the ego which enables one to continue working when one's unadmitted emotion is panic. And panic it was I think which sat as the
largest single sentiment in the breast of the collective delegates as they came to convene in Los Angeles. Delegates are not the noblest sons and daughters of the Republic; a
man of taste, arrived from Mars, would take one look at a convention floor and leave forever, convinced he had seen one of the drearier squats of Hell. If one still smells the
faint living echo of carnival wine, the pepper of a bullfight, the rag, drag, and panoply of a jousting tourney, it is all swallowed and regurgitated by the senses into the fouler
cud of a death gas one must rid oneself of—a cigar-smoking, stale-aired, slack-jawed, butt-littered, foul, bleak, hard-working, bureaucratic death gas of language and faces
("Yes, those faces," says the man from Mars: lawyers, judges, ward heelers, mafiosos,Southern goons and grandees, grand old ladies, trade unionists and finks), of pompous
words and long pauses which lay like a leaden pain over fever, the fever that one is in, over, or is it that one is just behind history? A legitimate panic for a delegate. America
is a nation of experts without roots; we are always creating tacticians who are blind to strategy and strategists who cannot take a step, and when the culture has finished its
work the institutions handcuff the infirmity. A delegate is a man who picks a candidate for the largest office in the land, a President who must live with problems whose
borders are in ethics, metaphysics, and now ontology; the delegate is prepared for this office of selection by emptying wastebaskets, toting garbage, and saying yes at the
right time for twenty years in the small political machine of some small or large town; his reward, one of them anyway, is that he arrives at an invitation to the convention.
An expert on local catch-as-catch-can, a small-time, often mediocre practitioner of small-town political judo, he comes to the big city with nine-tenths of his mind made up,
he will follow the orders of the boss who brought him. Yet of course it is not altogether so mean as that: his opinion is listened to—the boss will consider what he has to say
as one interesting factor among five hundred, and what is most important to the delegate, he has the illusion of partial freedom. He can, unless he is severely honest with
himself—and if he is, why sweat out the low levels of a political machine?—he can have the illusion that he has helped to chooses the candidate, he can even worry most
sincerely about his choice, flirt with defection from the boss, work out his own small political gains by the road of loyalty or the way of hard bargain. But even if he is there
for more than the ride, his vote a certainty in the mind of the political boss, able to be thrown here or switched there as the boss decides, still in some peculiar sense he is
reality to the boss, the delegate is the great American public, the bar he owns or the law practice, the piece of the union he represents, or the real-estate office, is a part of the
political landscape which the boss uses as his own image of how the votes will go, and if the people will like the candidate. And if the boss is depressed by what he sees, if
the candidate does not feel right to him, if he has a dull intimation that the candidate is not his sort (as, let us say, Harry Truman was his sort, or Symington might be his sort,
or Lyndon Johnson), then vote for him the boss will if he must; he cannot be caught on the wrong side, but he does not feel the pleasure of a personal choice. Which is the
center of the panic. Because if the boss is depressed, the delegate is doubly depressed, and the emotional fact is that Kennedy is not in focus, not in the old political focus, he
is not comfortable; in fact it is a mystery to the boss how Kennedy got to where he is, not a mystery in its structures; Kennedy is rolling in money, Kennedy got the votes in
primaries, and, most of all, Kennedy has a jewel of a political machine. It is as good as a crack Notre Dame team, all discipline and savvy and go-go-go, sound, drilled, never
dull, quick as a knife, full of the salt hipper-dipper, a beautiful machine; the boss could adore it if only a sensible candidate were driving it, a Truman, even a Stevenson,
please God a Northern Lyndon Johnson, but it is run by a man who looks young enough to be coach of the Freshman team, and that is not comfortable at all. The boss knows
political machines, he know issues, farm parity, Forand health bill, Landrum-Griffin, but this is not all so adequate after all to revolutionaries in Cuba who look like Beatniks,
competitions in missiles, Negroes looting whites in the Congo, intricacies of nuclear fallout, and NAACP men one does well to call Sir. It is all out of hand, everything
important is off the center, foreign affairs is now the lick of the heat, and senators are candidates instead of governors, a disaster to the old family style of political measure
where a political boss knows his governor and knows who his governor knows. So the boss is depressed, profoundly depressed. He comes to this convention resigned to
nominating a man he does not understand, or let us say that, so far as he understands the candidate who is to be nominated, he is not happy about the secrets of his appeal, not
so far as he divines these secrets; they seem to have too little to do with politics and all too much to do with the private madnesses of the nation which had thousands—or was
it hundreds of thousands—of people demonstrating in the long night before Chessman was killed, and a movie star, the greatest, Marlon the Brando out in the night with
them. Yes, this candidate for all his record; his good, sound, conventional liberal record has a patina of that other life, the second American life, the long electric night with
the fires of neon leading down the highway to the murmur of jazz.
"I was seeing Pershing Square, Los Angeles, now for the first time…the nervous fugitives from Times Square, Market Street SF, the French Quarter—masculine hustlers
looking for lonely fruits to score from, anything from the legendary $20 to a pad at night and breakfast in the morning and whatever you can clinch or clip; and the heat in
their holy cop uniforms, holy because of the Almighty Stick and the Almightier Vagrancy Law; the scattered junkies, the small-time pushers, the queens, the sad panhandlers,
the lonely, exiled nymphs haunting the entrance to the men's head, the fruits with the hungry eyes and jingling coins; the tough teen-age chicks—'dittybops'—making it with
the lost hustlers … all amid the incongruous piped music and the flowers—twin fountains gushing rainbow colored: the world of Lonely America squeezed into Pershing
Square, of the Cities of Terrible Night, downtown now trapped in the City of lost Angels … and the tress hang over it all the like some type of apathetic fate."
-- JOHN RECHY: Big Table 3
eing Los Angeles after ten years away, one realizes all over again that America is an unhappy contract between the East (that Faustian thrust of a most determined human
will which reaches up and out above the eye into the skyscrapers of New York) and those flat lands of compromise and mediocre self-expression, those endless half-pretty
repetitive small towns of the Middle and the West whose spirit is forever horizontal and whose marrow comes to rendezvous in the pastel monotonies of Los Angeles
architecture.
So far as America has a history, one can see it in the severe heights of New York City, in the glare from the Pittsburgh mills, by the color in the brick of Louisburg Square,
along the knotted greedy facades of the small mansions on Chicago's North Side, in Natchez' antebellum homes, the wrought-iron balconies off Bourbon Street, a captain's
house in Nantucket, by the curve of Commercial Street in Provincetown. One can make a list; it is probably finite. What culture we have made and what history has collected
to it can be found in those few hard examples of an architecture which came to its artistic term, was born, lived and so collected some history about it. Not all the roots of
American life are uprooted, but almost all, and the spirit of the supermarket, that homogeneous extension of stainless surfaces and psychoanalyzed people, packaged
commodities and ranch homes, interchangeable, geographically unrecognizable, that essence of a new postwar SuperAmerica is found nowhere so perfectly as in Los
Angeles' ubiquitous acres. One gets the impression that people come to Los Angeles in order to divorce themselves from the past, here to live or try to live in the rootless
pleasure world of an adult child. One knows that if the cities of the world were destroyed by a new war, the architecture of the rebuilding would create a landscape which
looked, subject to specifications of climate, exactly and entirely like the San Fernando Valley.

It is not that Los Angeles is altogether hideous, it is even by degrees pleasant, but for an Easterner there is never any salt in the wind; it is like Mexican cooking without chile,
or Chinese egg rolls missing their mustard; as one travels through the endless repetitions of that city which is the capital of suburbia with its milky pinks, its washed-out
oranges, its tainted lime-yellows of pastel on one pretty little architectural monstrosity after another, the colors not intense enough, the styles never pure, and never
sufficiently impure to collide on the eye, one conceives the people who live here—they have come out to express themselves, Los Angeles is the home of self-expression, but
the artists are middle-class and middling-minded; no passions will calcify here for years in the gloom to be revealed a decade later as the tessellations of hard and fertile
work, no, it is all open, promiscuous, borrowed, half bought, a city without iron, eschewing wood, a kingdom of stucco, the playground for mass men—one has the feeling it
was built by television sets giving orders to men. And in this land of the pretty-pretty, the virility is in the barbarisms, the vulgarities, it is in the huge billboards, the
screamers of the neon lighting, the shouting farm-utensil colors of the gas stations and monster drugstores, it is in the swing of the sports cars, hot rods, convertibles, Los
Angeles is a city to drive in, the boulevards are wide, the traffic is nervous and fast, the radio stations play bouncing, blooping, rippling tunes, one digs the pop in a pop tune,
no one of character would make love by it but the sound is good for swinging a car, electronic guitars and Hawaiian harps.
IT IS NOT THAT LOS ANGELES IS ALTOGETHER HIDEOUS, IT IS EVEN BY DEGREES PLEASANT, BUT FOR AN EASTERNER THERE IS NEVER
ANY SALT IN THE WIND.
So this is the town the Democrats came to, and with their unerring instinct (after being with them a week, one thinks of this party as a crazy, half-rich family, loaded with
poor cousins, traveling always in caravans with Cadillacs and Okie Fords, Lincolns and quarter-horse mules, putting up every night in tents to hear the chamber quartet of
Great Cousin Eleanor invaded by the Texas-twanging steel-stringing geetarists of Bubber Lyndon, carrying its own mean high school principal, Doc Symington, chided for
its manners by good Uncle Adlai, told the route of march by Navigator Jack, cut off every six months from the rich will of Uncle Jim Farley, never listening to the mechanic
of the caravan, Bald Sam Rayburn, who assures them they'll all break down unless Cousin Bubber gets the concession on the garage; it's the Snopes family married to Henry
James, with the labor unions thrown in like a Yankee dollar, and yet it's true, in tranquility one recollects them with affection, their instinct is good, crazy family good) and
this instinct now led the caravan to pick the Biltmore Hotel in downtown Los Angeles for their family get-together and reunion.

The Biltmore is one of the ugliest hotels in the world. Patterned after the flat roofs of an Italian Renaissance palace, it is eighty-eight times as large, and one-millionth as
valuable to the continuation of man, and it would be intolerable if it were not for the presence of Pershing Square, that square block of park with cactus and palm trees, the
three-hundred-and-sixty-five-day-a-year convention of every junkie, pot-head, pusher, queen (but you have read that good writing already). For years Pershing Square has
been one of the three or four places in America famous to homosexuals, famous not for its posh, the chic is round-heeled here, but because it is one of the avatars of good old
masturbatory sex, dirty with the crusted sugars of smut, dirty rooming houses around the corner where the score is made, dirty book and photograph stores down the street,
old-fashioned out-of-the-Thirties burlesque houses, cruising bars, jukeboxes, movie houses; Pershing Square is the town plaza for all those lonely, respectable, small-town
homosexuals who lead a family life, make children, and have the Philbrick psychology (How I Joined the Communist Party and Led Three Lives). Yes, it is the open-air
convention hall for the small-town inverts who live like spies, and it sits in the center of Los Angeles, facing the Biltmore, that hotel which is a mausoleum, that Pentagon of
traveling salesmen the Party chose to house the headquarters of the Convention.
So here came that family, cursed before it began by the thundering absence of Great-Uncle Truman, the delegates dispersed over a run of thirty miles and twenty-seven
hotels: the Olympian Motor Hotel, the Ambassador, the Beverly Wilshire, the Santa Ynez Inn (where rumor has it the delegates from Louisiana had some midnight swim),
the Mayan, the Commodore, the Mayfair, the Sheraton-West, the Huntington-Sheraton, the Green, the Hayward, the Gates, the Figueroa, the Statler Hilton, the Hollywood
Knickerbocker—does one have to be a collector to list such names?— beauties all, with that up-from-the-farm Los Angeles décor, plate-glass windows, patio and terrace,
foam-rubber mattress, pastel paints, all of them pretty as an ad in full-page color, all but the Biltmore where everybody gathered every day—the newsmen, the TV, radio,
magazine, and foreign newspaperman, the delegates, the politicos, the tourists, the campaign managers, the runners, the flunkies, the cousins and aunts, the wives, the
grandfathers, the eight-year-old girls, and the twenty-eight-year-old girls in the Kennedy costumes, red and white and blue, the Symingteeners, the Johnson Ladies, the
Stevenson Ladies, everybody—and for three days before the convention and four days into it, everybody collected at the Biltmore, in the lobby, in the grill, in the Biltmore
Bowl, in the elevators, along the corridors, three hundred deep always outside the Kennedy suite, milling everywhere, every dark-carpeted grey-brown hall of the hotel, but it
was in the Gallery of the Biltmore where one first felt the mood which pervaded all proceedings until the convention was almost over, that heavy, thick, witless depression
which was to dominate every move as the delegates wandered and gawked and paraded and set for a spell, there in the Gallery of the Biltmore, that huge depressing alley
with its inimitable hotel color, that faded depth of chiaroscuro which unhappily has no depth, that brown which is not a brown, that grey which has no pearl in it, that color
which can be described only as hotel-color because the beiges, the tans, the walnuts, the mahoganies, the dull blood rugs, the moaning yellows, the sick greens, the greys and
all those dumb browns merge into that lack of color which is an over-large hotel at convention time, with all the small-towners wearing their set, starched faces, that look
they get at carnival, all fever and suspicion, and proud to be there, eddying slowly back and forth in that high block-long tunnel of a room with its arched ceiling and square
recesses filling every rib of the arch with art work, escutcheons and blazons and other art, pictures I think, I cannot even remember, there was such a hill of cigar smoke the
eye had to travel on its way to the ceiling, and at one end there was galvanized-pipe scaffolding and workmen repairing some part of the ceiling, one of them touching up one
of the endless squares of painted plaster in the arch, and another worker, passing by, yelled up to the one who was working on the ceiling: "Hey, Michelangelo!"
Later, of course, it began to emerge and there were portraits one could keep, Symington, dogged at a press conference, declaring with no conviction that he knew he had a
good chance to win, the disappointment eating at his good looks so that he came off hard-faced, mean, and yet slack—a desperate dullness came off the best of his intentions.
There was Johnson who had compromised too many contradictions and now the contradictions were in his face: when he smiled the corners of his mouth squeezed gloom;
when he was pious, his eyes twinkled irony; when he spoke in a righteous tone, he looked corrupt; when he jested, the ham in his jowls looked to quiver. He was not
convincing. He was a Southern politician, a Texas Democrat, a liberal Eisenhower; he would do no harm, he would do no good, he would react to the machine, good fellow,
nice friend—the Russians would understand him better than his own.
Stevenson had the patina. He came into the room and the room was different, not stronger perhaps (which is why ultimately he did not win), but warmer. One knew why
some adored him; he did not look like other people, not with press lights on his flesh; he looked like a lover, the simple truth, he had the sweet happiness of an adolescent
who has just been given his first major kiss. And so he glowed, and one was reminded of Chaplin, not because they were the least alike in features, but because Charlie
Chaplin was luminous when one met him and Stevenson had something of that light.

There was Eleanor Roosevelt, fine, precise, hand-worked like ivory. Her voice was almost attractive as she explained in the firm, sad tones of the first lady in this small town
why she could not admit Mr. Kennedy, who was no doubt a gentleman, into her political house. One had the impression of a lady who was finally becoming a woman, which
is to say that she was just a little bitchy about it all; nice bitchy, charming, it had a touch of art to it, but it made one wonder if she were not now satisfying the last passion of
them all, which was to become physically attractive, for she was better-looking than she had ever been as she spurned the possibilities of a young suitor.
Jim Farley. Huge. Cold as a bishop. The hell he would consign you to was cold as ice.
Bobby Kennedy, the archetype Bobby Kennedy, looked like a West Point cadet, or, better, one of those reconstructed Irishmen from Kirkland House one always used to have
to face in the line in Harvard house football games. "Hello," you would say to the ones who looked like him as you lined up for the scrimmage after the kickoff, and his type
would nod and look away, one rock glint of recognition your due for living across the hall from one another all through Freshman year, and then bang, as the ball was passed
back, you'd get a bony king-hell knee in the crotch. He was the kind of man never to put on the gloves with if you wanted to do some social boxing, because after two
minutes it would be a war, and ego-bastards last long in a war.
Carmine DeSapio and Kenneth Galbraith on the same part of the convention floor. DeSapio is bigger than one expects, keen and florid, great big smoked glasses, a suntan
like Man-tan -- he is the kind of heavyweight Italian who could get by with a name like Romeo -- and Galbraith is tall-tall, as actors say, six foot six it could be, terribly thin,
enormously attentive, exquisitely polite, birdlike, he is sensitive to the stirring of reeds in a wind over the next hill. "Our grey eminence," whispered the intelligent observer
next to me.
Bob Wagner, the mayor of New York, a little man, plump, groomed, blank. He had the blank, pomaded, slightly worried look of the first barber in a good barbershop, the
kind who would go to the track on his day off and wear a green transparent stone in a gold ring.
And then there was Kennedy, the edge of the mystery. But a sketch will no longer suffice.
"…it can be said with a fair amount of certainty that the essence of his political attractiveness is his extraordinary political intelligence. He has a mind quite unlike that of
any other Democrat of this century. It is not literary, metaphysical and moral, as Adlai Stevenson's is. Kennedy is articulate and often witty, but he does not seek verbal
polish. No one can doubt the seriousness of his concern with the most serious political matters, but one feels that whereas Mr. Stevenson's political views derive from a view
of life that holds politics to be a mere fraction of existence, Senator Kennedy's primary interest is in politics. The easy way in which he disposes of the question of Church
and State -- as if he felt that any reasonable man could quite easily resolve any possible conflict of loyalties -- suggests that the organization of society is the one thing that
really engages his interest."

-- RICHARD ROVERE: The New Yorker, July 23, 1960
The afternoon he arrived at the convention from the airport, there was of course a large crowd on the street outside the Biltmore, and the best way to get a view was to get
up on an outdoor balcony of the Biltmore, two flights above the street, and look down on the event. One waited thirty minutes, and then a honking of horns as wild as the
getaway after an Italian wedding sounded around the corner, and the Kennedy cortege came into sight, circled Pershing Square, the men in the open and leading convertibles
sitting backwards to look at their leader, and finally came to a halt in a space cleared for them by the police in the crowd. The television cameras were out, and a Kennedy
band was playing some circus music. One saw him immediately. He had the deep orange-brown suntan of a ski instructor, and when he smiled at the crowd his teeth were
amazingly white and clearly visible at a distance of fifty yards. For one moment he saluted Pershing Square, and Pershing Square saluted him back, the prince and the
beggars of glamour staring at one another across a city street, one of those very special moments in the underground history of the world, and then with a quick move he was
out of his car and by choice headed into the crowd instead of the lane cleared for him into the hotel by the police, so that he made his way inside surrounded by a mob, and
one expected at any moment to see him lifted to its shoulders like a matador being carried back to the city after a triumph in the plaza. All the while the band kept playing the
campaign tunes, sashaying circus music, and one had a moment of clarity, intense as déjà vu, for the scene which had taken place had been glimpsed before in a dozen
musical comedies; it was the scene where the hero, the matinee idol, the movie star comes to the palace to claim the princess, or what is the same, and more to our soil, the
football hero, the campus king, arrives at the dean's home surrounded by a court of open-singing students to plead with the dean for his daughter's kiss and permission to put
on the big musical that night. And suddenly I saw the convention, it came into focus for me, and I understood the mood of depression which had lain over the convention,
because finally it was simple: the Democrats were going to nominate a man who, no matter how serious his political dedication might be, was indisputably and willy-nilly
going to be seen as a great box-office actor, and the consequences of that were staggering and not at all easy to calculate.
Since the First World War Americans have been leading a double life, and our history has moved on two rivers, one visible, the other underground; there has been the history
of politics which is concrete, factual, practical and unbelievably dull if not for the consequences of the actions of some of these men; and there is a subterranean river of
untapped, ferocious, lonely and romantic desires, that concentration of ecstasy and violence which is the dream life of the nation.
The twentieth century may yet be seen as that era when civilized man and underprivileged man were melted together into mass man, the iron and steel of the nineteenth
century giving way to electronic circuits which communicated their messages into men, the unmistakable tendency of the new century seeming to be the creation of men as
interchangeable as commodities, their extremes of personality singed out of existence by the psychic fields of force the communicators would impose. This loss of
personality was a catastrophe to the future of the imagination, but billions of people might first benefit from it by having enough to eat—one did not know—and there
remained citadels of resistance in Europe where the culture was deep and roots were visible in the architecture of the past.
SIMPLY, AMERICA WAS THE LAND WHERE PEOPLE STILL BELIEVED IN HEROES.
Nowhere, as in America, however, was this fall from individual man to mass man felt so acutely, for America was at once the first and most prolific creator of mass
communications, and the most rootless of countries, since almost no American could lay claim to the line of a family which had not once at least severed its roots by
migrating here. But, if rootless, it was then the most vulnerable of countries to its own homogenization. Yet America was also the country in which the dynamic myth of the
Renaissance—that every man was potentially extraordinary—knew its most passionate persistence. Simply, America was the land where people still believed in heroes:
George Washington; Billy the Kid; Lincoln, Jefferson; Mark Twain, Jack London, Hemingway; Joe Louis, Dempsey, Gentleman Jim; America believed in athletes, rum-
runners, aviators; even lovers, by the time Valentino died. It was a country which had grown by the leap of one hero past another—is there a county in all of our ground
which does not have its legendary figure? And when the West was filled, the expansion turned inward, became part of an agitated, overexcited, superheated dream life. The
film studios threw up their searchlights as the frontier was finally sealed, and the romantic possibilities of the old conquest of land turned into a vertical myth, trapped within
the skull, of a new kind of heroic life, each choosing his own archetype of a neo-renaissance man, be it Barrymore, Cagney, Flynn, Bogart, Brando or Sinatra, but it was
almost as if there were no peace unless one could fight well, kill well (if always with honor), love well and love many, be cool, be daring, be dashing, be wild, be wily, be
resourceful, be a brave gun. And this myth, that each of us was born to be free, to wander, to have adventure and to grow on the waves of the violent, the perfumed, and the
unexpected, had a force which could not be tamed no matter how the nation's regulators—politicians, medicos, policemen, professors, priests, rabbis, ministers, idèologues,
psychoanalysts, builders, executives and endless communicators—would brick-in the modern life with hygiene upon sanity, and middle-brow homily over platitude; the myth
would not die. Indeed a quarter of the nation's business must have depended upon its existence. But it stayed alive for more than that -- it was as if the message in the
labyrinth of the genes would insist that violence was locked with creativity, and adventure was the secret of love.
Once, in the Second World War and in the year or two which followed, the underground river returned to earth, and the life of the nation was intense, of the present, electric;
as a lady said, "That was the time when we gave parties which changed people's lives." The Forties was a decade when the speed with which one's own events occurred
seemed as rapid as the history of the battlefields, and for the mass of people in America a forced march into a new jungle of emotion was the result. The surprises, the
failures, and the dangers of that life must have terrified some nerve of awareness in the power and the mass, for, as if stricken by the orgiastic vistas the myth had carried up
from underground, the retreat to a more conservative existence was disorderly, the fear of communism spread like an irrational hail of boils. To anyone who could see, the
excessive hysteria of the Red wave was no preparation to face an enemy, but rather a terror of the national self: free-loving, lust-looting, atheistic, implacable—absurdity
beyond absurdity to label communism so, for the moral products of Stalinism had been Victorian sex and a ponderous machine of material theology.
Forced underground again, deep beneath all Reader's Digest hospital dressings of Mental Health in Your Community, the myth continued to flow, fed by television and the
film. The fissure in the national psyche widened to the danger point. The last large appearance of the myth was the vote which tricked the polls and gave Harry Truman his
victory in '48. That was the last. Came the Korean War, the shadow of the H-bomb, and we were ready for the General. Uncle Harry gave way to Father, and security,
regularity, order, and the life of no imagination were the command of the day. If one had any doubt of this, there was Joe McCarthy with his built-in treason detector,
furnished by God, and the damage was done. In the totalitarian wind of those days, anyone who worked in Government formed the habit of being not too original, and many
a mind atrophied from disuse and private shame. At the summit there was benevolence with leadership, regularity without vision, security without safety, rhetoric without
life. The ship drifted on, that enormous warship of the United States, led by a Secretary of State whose cells were seceding to cancer, and as the world became more fantastic
—Africa turning itself upside down, while some new kind of machine man was being made in China—two events occurred which stunned in the confidence of America into
a new night: the Russians put up their Sputnik, and Civil Rights—that reluctant gift to the American Negro, granted for its effect on foreign affairs—spewed into real life at
Little Rock. The national Ego was in shock: the Russians were now in some ways our technological superiors, and we had an internal problem of subject populations equal
conceivably in its difficulty to the Soviet and its satellites. The fatherly calm of the General began to seem like the uxorious mellifluences of the undertaker.
Underneath it all was a larger problem. The life of politics and the life of myth had diverged too far, and the energies of the people one knew everywhere had slowed down.
Twenty years ago a post-Depression generation had gone to war and formed a lively, grousing, by times inefficient, carousing, pleasure-seeking, not altogether inadequate
army. It did part of what it was supposed to do, and many, out of combat, picked up a kind of private life on the fly, and had their good time despite the yaws of the military
system. But today in America the generation which respected the code of the myth was Beat, a horde of half-begotten Christs with scraggly beards, heroes none, saints all,
weak before the strong, empty conformisms of the authority. The sanction for finding one's growth was no longer one's flag, one's career, one's sex, one's adventure, not even
one's booze. Among the best in the newest of the generations, the myth had found its voice in marijuana, and the joke of the underground was that when the Russians came
over they could never dare to occupy us for long because America was too Hip. Gallows humor. The poorer truth might be that America was too Beat, the instinct of the
nation so separated from its public mind that apathy, schizophrenia, and private beatitudes might be the pride of the welcoming committee any underground could offer.
Yes, the life of politics and the life of the myth had diverged too far. There was nothing to return them to one another, no common danger, no cause, no desire, and, most
essentially, no hero. It was a hero America needed, a hero central to his time, a man whose personality might suggest contradiction and mysteries which could reach into the
alienated circuits of the underground, because only a hero can capture the secret imagination of a people, and so be good for the vitality of his nation; a hero embodies the
fantasy and so allows each private mind the liberty to consider its fantasy and find a way to grow. Each mind can become more conscious of its desire and waste less strength
in hiding from itself. Roosevelt was such a hero, and Churchill, Lenin and DeGaulle; even Hitler, to take the most odious example of this thesis, was a hero, the hero-as-
monster, embodying what had become the monstrous fantasy of a people, but the horror upon which the radical mind and liberal temperament foundered was that he gave
outlet to the energies of the Germans and so presented the twentieth century with an index of how horrible had become the secret heart of its desire. Roosevelt is of course a
happier example of the hero; from his paralytic leg to the royal elegance of his geniality he seemed to contain the country within himself; everyone from the meanest starving
cripple to an ambitious young man could expand to the optimism of an improving future because the man offered an unspoken promise of a future which would be rich. The
sexual and the sex-starved, the poor, the hard-working and the imaginative well-to-do could see themselves in the President, could believe him to be like themselves. So a
large part of the country was able to discover its energies because not as much was wasted in feeling that the country was a poisonous nutrient which stifled the day.

Too simple? No doubt. One tries to construct a simple model. The thesis is after all not so mysterious; it would merely nudge the notion that a hero embodies his time and is
not so very much better than his time, but he is larger than life and so is capable of giving direction to the time, able to encourage a nation to discover the deepest colors of its
character. At bottom the concept of hero is antagonistic to impersonal social progress, to the belief that social ills can be solved by social legislating, for it sees a country as
all-but-trapped in its character until it has a hero who reveals the character of the country to itself. The implication is that without such a hero the nation turns sluggish.
Truman for example was not such a hero, he was not sufficiently larger than life, he inspired familiarity without excitement, he was a character but his proportions came from
soap opera: Uncle Harry, full of salty common-sense and small-minded certainty, a storekeeping uncle.
Whereas Eisenhower has been the anti-Hero, the regulator. Nations do not necessarily and inevitably seek for heroes. In periods of dull anxiety, one is more likely to look for
security than a dramatic confrontation, and Eisenhower could stand as a hero only for that large number of Americans who were most proud of their lack of imagination. In
American life, the unspoken war of the century has taken place between the city and the small town; the city which is dynamic, orgiastic, unsettling, explosive and
accelerating to the psyche; the small town which is rooted, narrow, cautious and planted in the life-logic of the family. The need of the city is to accelerate growth; the pride
of the small town is to retard it. But since America has been passing through a period of enormous expansion since the war, the double-four years of Dwight Eisenhower
could not retard the expansion, it could only denude it of color, character, and the development of novelty. The small town mind is rooted—it is rooted in the small town—
and when it attempts to direct history the results are disastrously colorless because the instrument of world power which is used by the small-town mind is the committee.
Committees do not create, they merely proliferate, and the incredible dullness wreaked upon the American landscape in Eisenhower's eight years has been the triumph of the
corporation. A tasteless, sexless, odorless sanctity in architecture, manners, modes, styles has been the result. Eisenhower embodied half the needs of the nation, the needs of
the timid, the petrified, the sanctimonious, and the sluggish. What was even worse, he did not divide the nation as a hero might (with a dramatic dialogue as the result); he
merely excluded one part of the nation from the other. The result was an alienation of the best minds and bravest impulses from the faltering history which was made.
America's need in those years was to take an existential turn, to walk into the nightmare, to face into that terrible logic of history which demanded that the country and its
people must become more extraordinary and more adventurous, or else perish, since the only alternative was to offer a false security in the power and the panacea of
organized religion, family, and the F.B.I., a totalitarianization of the psyche by the stultifying techniques of the mass media which would seep into everyone's most private
associations and so leave the country powerless against the Russians even if the denouement were to take fifty years, for in a competition between totalitarianisms the first
maxim of the prizefight manager would doubtless apply: "Hungry fighters win fights."
Some part of these thoughts must have been in one's mind at the moment there was the first glimpse of Kennedy entering the Biltmore Hotel; and in the days which followed,
the first mystery —the profound air of depression which hung over the convention—gave way to a second mystery which can be answered only by history. The depression of
the delegates was understandable: no one had too much doubt that Kennedy would be nominated, but if elected he would be not only the youngest President ever to be chosen
by voters, he would be the most conventionally attractive young man ever to sit in the White House, and his wife—some would claim it—might be the most beautiful First
Lady in our history. Of necessity the myth would emerge once more, because America's politics would now be also America's favorite movie, America's first soap opera,
America's best-seller. One thinks of the talents of writers like Taylor Caldwell or Frank Yerby, or is it rather The Fountainhead which would contain such a fleshing of the
romantic prescription? Or is it indeed one's own work which is called into question? "Well, there's your first hipster," says a writer one knows at the convention, "Sergius
O'Shaugnessy born rich," and the temptation is to nod, for it could be true, a war hero, and the heroism is bona fide, even exceptional, a man who has lived with death, who,
crippled in the back, took on an operation which would kill him or restore him to power, who chose to marry a lady whose face might be too imaginative for the taste of a
democracy which likes its first ladies to be executives of home-management, a man who courts political suicide by choosing to go all out for a nomination four, eight, or
twelve years before his political elders think he is ready, a man who announces a week prior to the convention that the young are better fitted to direct history than the old.
Yes, it captures the attention. This is no routine candidate calling every shot by safety's routine book ("Yes," Nixon said, naturally but terribly tired an hour after his
nomination, the TV cameras and lights and microphones bringing out a sweat of fatigue on his face, the words coming very slowly from the tired brain, somber, modest,
sober, slow, slow enough so that one could touch emphatically the cautions behind each word, "Yes, I want to say," said Nixon, "that whatever abilities I have, I got from my
mother." A tired pause…dull moment of warning, "…and my father." The connection now made, the rest comes easy, "…and my school and my church." Such men are
capable of anything.)
One had the opportunity to study Kennedy a bit in the days that followed. His style in the press conferences was interesting. Not terribly popular with the reporters (too
much a contemporary, and yet too difficult to understand, he received nothing like the rounds of applause given to Eleanor Roosevelt, Stevenson, Humphrey, or even
Johnson), he carried himself nonetheless with a cool grace which seemed indifferent to applause, his manner somehow similar to the poise of a fine boxer, quick with his
hands, neat in his timing, and two feet away from his corner when the bell ended the round. There was a good lithe wit to his responses, a dry Harvard wit, a keen sense of
proportion in disposing of difficult questions—invariably he gave enough of an answer to be formally satisfactory without ever opening himself to a new question which
might go further than the first. Asked by a reporter, "Are you for Adlai as vice-president?" the grin came forth and the voice turned very dry, "No, I cannot say we have
considered Adlai as a vice-president." Yet there was an elusive detachment to everything he did. One did not have the feeling of a man present in the room with all his weight
and all his mind. Johnson gave you all of himself, he was a political animal, he breathed like an animal, sweated like one, you knew his mind was entirely absorbed with the
compendium of political fact and maneuver; Kennedy seemed at times like a young professor whose manner was adequate for the classroom, but whose mind was off in
some intricacy of the Ph.D. thesis he was writing. Perhaps one can give a sense of the discrepancy by saying that he was like an actor who had been cast as the candidate, a
good actor, but not a great one—you were aware all the time that the role was one thing and the man another—they did not coincide, the actor seemed a touch too aloof (as,
let us say, Gregory Peck is usually too aloof) to become the part. Yet one had little sense of whether to value this elusiveness, or to beware of it. One could be witnessing the
fortitude of a superior sensitivity or the detachment of a man who was not quite real to himself. And his voice gave no clue. When Johnson spoke, one could separate what
was fraudulent from what was felt, he would have been satisfying as an actor the way Broderick Crawford or Paul Douglas is satisfying; one saw into his emotions, or at least
had the illusion that one did. Kennedy's voice, however, was only a fair voice, too reedy, near to strident, it had the metallic snap of a cricket in it somewhere, it was more
impersonal than the man, and so became the least-impressive quality in a face, a body, a selection of language, and a style of movement which made up a better-than-decent
presentation, better than one had expected.
Getty
With all of that, it would not do to pass over the quality in Kennedy which is most difficult to describe. And in fact some touches should be added to this hint of a portrait, for
later (after the convention), one had a short session alone with him, and the next day, another. As one had suspected in advance the interviews were not altogether
satisfactory, they hardly could have been. A man running for President is altogether different from a man elected President: the hazards of the campaign make it impossible
for a candidate to be as interesting as he might like to be (assuming he has such a desire). One kept advancing the argument that this campaign would be a contest of
personalities, and Kennedy kept returning the discussion to politics. After a while one recognized this was an inevitable caution for him. So there would be not too much
point to reconstructing the dialogue since Kennedy is hardly inarticulate about his political attitudes and there will be a library vault of text devoted to it in the newspapers.
What struck me most about the interview was a passing remark whose importance was invisible on the scale of politics, but was altogether meaningful to my particular
competence. As we sat down for the first time, Kennedy smiled nicely and said that he had read my books. One muttered one's pleasure. "Yes," he said, "I've read…" and
then there was a short pause which did not last long enough to be embarrassing in which it was yet obvious no title came instantly to his mind, an omission one was not ready
to mind altogether since a man in such a position must be obliged to carry a hundred thousand facts and names in his head, but the hesitation lasted no longer than three
seconds or four, and then he said, "I've read The Deer Park and…the others," which startled me for it was the first time in a hundred similar situations, talking to someone
whose knowledge of my work was casual, that the sentence did not come out, "I've read The Naked and the Dead…and the others." If one is to take the worst and assume that
Kennedy was briefed for this interview (which is most doubtful), it still speaks well for the striking instincts of his advisers.
HE CARRIED HIMSELF NONETHELESS WITH A COOL GRACE WHICH SEEMED INDIFFERENT TO APPLAUSE, HIS MANNER SOMEHOW
SIMILAR TO THE POISE OF A FINE BOXER.
What was retained later is an impression of Kennedy's manners which were excellent, even artful, better than the formal good manners of Choate and Harvard, almost as if
what was creative in the man had been given to the manners. In a room with one or two people, his voice improved, became low-pitched, even pleasant—it seemed obvious
that in all these years he had never become a natural public speaker and so his voice was constricted in public, the symptom of all orators who are ambitious, throttled, and
determined.
His personal quality had a subtle, not quite describable intensity, a suggestion of dry pent heat perhaps, his eyes large, the pupils grey, the whites prominent, almost shocking,
his most forceful feature: he had the eyes of a mountaineer. His appearance changed with his mood, strikingly so, and this made him always more interesting than what he
was saying. He would seem at one moment older than his age, forty-eight or fifty, a tall, slim, sunburned professor with a pleasant weathered face, not even particularly
handsome; five minutes later, talking to a press conference on his lawn, three microphones before him, a television camera turning, his appearance would have gone through
a metamorphosis, he would look again like a movie star, his coloring vivid, his manner rich, his gestures strong and quick, alive with that concentration of vitality a
successful actor always seems to radiate. Kennedy had a dozen faces. Although they were not at all similar as people, the quality was reminiscent of someone like Brando
whose expression rarely changes, but whose appearances seems to shift from one person into another as the minutes go by, and one bothers with this comparison because,
like Brando, Kennedy's most characteristic quality is the remote and private air of a man who has traversed some lonely terrain of experience, of loss and gain, of nearness to
death, which leaves him isolated from the mass of others.

"The next day while they waited in vain for rescuers, the wrecked half of the boat turned over in the water and they saw that it would soon sink. The group decided to swim to
a small island three miles away. There were other islands bigger and nearer, but the Navy officers knew that they were occupied by the Japanese. On one island, only one
mile to the south, they could see a Japanese camp. McMahon, the engineer whose legs were disabled by burns, was unable to swim. Despite his own painfully crippled back,
Kennedy swam the three miles with a breast stroke, towing behind him by a life-belt strap that he held between his teeth the helpless McMahon … it took Kennedy and the
suffering engineer five hours to reach the island."
The quotation is from a book which has for its dedicated unilateral title, The Remarkable Kennedys, but the prose is by one of the best of the war reporters, the
former Yank editor, Joe McCarthy, and so presumably may be trusted in such details as this. Physical bravery does not of course guarantee a man's abilities in the White
House—all too often men with physical courage are disappointing in their moral imagination—but the heroism here is remarkable for its tenacity. The above is merely one
episode in a continuing saga which went on for five days in and out of the water, and left Kennedy at one point "miraculously saved from drowning (in a storm) by a group of
Solomon Island natives who suddenly came up beside him in a large dugout canoe." Afterward, his back still injured (that precise back injury which was to put him on
crutches eleven years later, and have him search for "spinal-fusion surgery" despite a warning that his chances of living through the operation were "extremely limited"), he
asked to go back on duty and became so bold in the attacks he made with his PT boat "that the crew didn't like to go out with him because he took so many chances."
It is the wisdom of a man who senses death within him and gambles that he can cure it by risking his life. It is the therapy of the instinct, and who is so wise as to call it
irrational? Before he went into the Navy, Kennedy had been ailing. Washed out of Freshman year at Princeton by a prolonged trough of yellow jaundice, sick for a year at
Harvard, weak already in the back from an injury at football, his trials suggest the self-hatred of a man whose resentment and ambition are too large for his body. Not
everyone can discharge their furies on an analyst's couch, for some angers can be relaxed only by winning power, some rages are sufficiently monumental to demand that one
try to become a hero or else fall back into that death which is already within the cells. But if one succeeds, the energy aroused can be exceptional. Talking to a man who had
been with Kennedy in Hyannis Port the week before the convention, I heard that he was in a state of deep fatigue.
"Well, he didn't look tired at the convention," one commented.
"Oh, he had three days of rest. Three days of rest for him is like six months to us."
One thinks of that three-mile swim with the belt in his mouth and McMahon holding it behind him. There are pestilences which sit in the mouth and rot the teeth -- in those
five hours how much of the psyche must have been remade, for to give vent to the bite in one's jaws and yet use that rage to save a life: it is not so very many men who have
the apocalyptic sense that heroism is the First Doctor.
If one had a profound criticism of Kennedy it was that his public mind was too conventional, but that seemed to matter less than the fact of such a man in office because the
law of political life had become so dreary that only a conventional mind could win an election. Indeed there could be no politics which gave warmth to one's body until the
country had recovered its imagination, its pioneer lust for the unexpected and incalculable. It was the changes that might come afterward on which one could put one's hope.
With such a man in office the myth of the nation would again be engaged, and the fact that he was Catholic would shiver a first existential vibration of consciousness into the
mind of the White Protestant. For the first time in our history, the Protestant would have the pain and creative luxury of feeling himself in some tiny degree part of a minority,
and that was an experience which might be incommensurable in its value to the best of them.
Getty
As yet we have said hardly a word about Stevenson. And his actions must remain a puzzle unless one dares a speculation about his motive, or was it his need?
So far as the people at the convention had affection for anyone, it was Stevenson, so far as they were able to generate any spontaneous enthusiasm, their cheers were again for
Stevenson. Yet it was obvious he never had much chance because so soon as a chance would present itself he seemed quick to dissipate the opportunity. The day before the
nominations, he entered the Sports Arena to take his seat as a delegate—the demonstration was spontaneous, noisy and prolonged; it was quieted only by Governor Collins'
invitation for Stevenson to speak to the delegates. In obedience perhaps to the scruple that a candidate must not appear before the convention until nominations are done,
Stevenson said no more than: "I am grateful for this tumultuous and moving welcome. After getting in and out of the Biltmore Hotel and this hall, I have decided I know
whom you are going to nominate. It will be the last survivor." This dry reminder of the ruthlessness of politics broke the roar of excitement for his presence. The applause as
he left the platform was like the dying fall-and-moan of a baseball crowd when a home run curves foul. The next day, a New York columnist talking about it said bitterly, "If
he'd only gone through the motions, if he had just said that now he wanted to run, that he would work hard, and he hoped the delegates would vote for him. Instead he made
that lame joke." One wonders. It seems almost as if he did not wish to win unless victory came despite himself, and then was overwhelming. There are men who are not
heroes because they are too good for their time, and it is natural that defeats leave them bitter, tired, and doubtful of their right to make new history. If Stevenson had
campaigned for a year before the convention, it is possible that he could have stopped Kennedy. At the least, the convention would have been enormously more exciting, and
the nominations might have gone through half-a-dozen ballots before a winner was hammered into shape. But then Stevenson might also have shortened his life. One had the
impression of a tired man who (for a politician) was sickened unduly by compromise. A year of maneuvering, broken promises, and detestable partners might have gutted
him for the election campaign. If elected, it might have ruined him as a President. There is the possibility that he sensed his situation exactly this way, and knew that if he
were to run for President, win and make a good one, he would first have to be restored, as one can indeed be restored, by an exceptional demonstration of love -- love, in this
case, meaning that the Party had a profound desire to keep him as their leader. The emotional truth of a last-minute victory for Stevenson over the Kennedy machine might
have given him new energy; it would certainly have given him new faith in a country and a party whose good motives he was possibly beginning to doubt. Perhaps the fault
he saw with his candidacy was that he attracted only the nicest people to himself and there were not enough of them. (One of the private amusements of the convention was
to divine some of the qualities of the candidates by the style of the young women who put on hats and clothing and politicked in the colors of one presidential gent or another.
Of course, half of them must have been hired models, but someone did the hiring and so it was fair to look for a common denominator. The Johnson girls tended to be plump,
pie-faced, dumb sexy Southern; the Symingteeners seemed a touch mulish, stubborn, good-looking pluggers; the Kennedy ladies were the handsomest; healthy, attractive,
tough, a little spoiled -- they looked like the kind of girls who had gotten all the dances in high school and/or worked for a year as an airline hostess before marrying well. But
the Stevenson girls looked to be doing it for no money; they were good sorts, slightly horsy-faced, one had the impression they had played field hockey in college.) It was
indeed the pure, the saintly, the clean-living, the pacifistic, the vegetarian who seemed most for Stevenson, and the less humorous in the Kennedy camp were heard to remark
bitterly that Stevenson had nothing going for him but a bunch of Goddamn Beatnicks. This might even have had its sour truth. The demonstrations outside the Sports Arena
for Stevenson seemed to have more than a fair proportion of tall, emaciated young men with thin, wry beards and three-string guitars accompanied (again in undue
proportion) by a contingent of ascetic, face-washed young Beat ladies in sweaters and dungarees. Not to mention all the Holden Caulfields one could see from here to the
horizon. But of course it is unfair to limit it so, for the Democratic gentry were also committed half en masse for Stevenson, as well as a considerable number of movie stars,
Shelley Winters for one: after the convention she remarked sweetly, "Tell me something nice about Kennedy so I can get excited about him."
What was properly astonishing was the way this horde of political half-breeds and amateurs came within distance of turning the convention from its preconceived purpose,
and managed at least to bring the only hour of thoroughgoing excitement the convention could offer.
But then nominating day was the best day of the week and enough happened to suggest that a convention out of control would be a spectacle as extraordinary in the American
scale of spectator values as a close seventh game in the World Series or a tied fourth quarter in a professional-football championship. A political convention is after all not a
meeting of a corporation's board of directors; it is a fiesta, a carnival, a pig-rooting, horse-snorting, band-playing, voice-screaming medieval get-together of greed, practical
lust, compromised idealism, career-advancement, meeting, feud, vendetta, conciliation, of rabble-rousers, fist fights (as it used to be), embraces, drunks (again as it used to
be) and collective rivers of animal sweat. It is a reminder that no matter how the country might pretend it has grown up and become tidy in its manners, bodiless in its
legislative language, hygienic in its separation of high politics from private life, that the roots still come grubby from the soil, and that politics in America is still different
from politics anywhere else because the politics has arisen out of the immediate needs, ambitions, and cupidities of the people, that our politics still smell of the bedroom and
the kitchen, rather than having descended to us from the chill punctilio of aristocratic negotiation.
So. The Sports Arena was new, too pretty of course, tasteless in its design—it was somehow pleasing that the acoustics were so bad for one did not wish the architects well;
there had been so little imagination in their design, and this arena would have none of the harsh grandeur of Madison Square Garden when it was aged by spectators' phlegm
and feet over the next twenty years. Still it had some atmosphere; seen from the streets, with the spectators moving to the ticket gates, the bands playing, the green hot-shot
special editions of the Los Angeles newspapers being hawked by the newsboys, there was a touch of the air of promise that precedes a bullfight, not something so good as the
approach to the Plaza Mexico, but good, let us say, like the entrance into El Toreo of Mexico City, another architectural monstrosity, also with seats painted, as I remember,
in rose-pink, and dark, milky sky-blue.
Inside, it was also different this nominating day. On Monday and Tuesday the air had been desultory, no one listened to the speakers, and everybody milled from one easy
chatting conversation to another—it had been like a tepid Kaffeklatsch for fifteen thousand people. But today there was a whip of anticipation in the air, the seats on the floor
were filled, the press section was working, and in the gallery people were sitting in the aisles.
Sam Rayburn had just finished nominating Johnson as one came in, and the rebel yells went up, delegates started filing out of their seats and climbing over seats, and a
pullulating dance of bodies and bands began to snake through the aisles, the posters jogging and whirling in time to the music. The dun color of the floor (faces, suits, seats,
and floor boards), so monotonous the first two days, now lit up with life as if an iridescent caterpillar had emerged from a fold of wet leaves. It was more vivid than one had
expected, it was right, it felt finally like a convention, and from up close when one got down to the floor (where your presence was illegal and so consummated by sneaking
in one time as demonstrators were going out, and again by slipping a five-dollar bill to a guard) the nearness to the demonstrators took on high color, that electric vividness
one feels on the side lines of a football game when it is necessary to duck back as the ball-carrier goes by, his face tortured in the concentration of the moment, the thwomp of
his tackle as acute as if one had been hit oneself.

That was the way the demonstrators looked on the floor. Nearly all had the rapt, private look of a passion or a tension which would finally be worked off by one's limbs, three
hundred football players, everything from seedy delegates with jowl-sweating shivers to livid models, paid for their work that day, but stomping out their beat on the floor
with the hypnotic adulatory grimaces of ladies who had lived for Lyndon these last ten years.
Then from the funereal rostrum, whose color was not so rich as mahogany nor so dead as a cigar, came the last of the requests for the delegates to take their seats. The
seconding speeches began, one minute each; they ran for three and four, the minor-league speakers running on the longest as if the electric antennae of television was the lure
of the Sirens, leading them out. Bored cheers applauded their concluding Götterdämmerungen and the nominations were open again. A favorite son, a modest demonstration,
five seconding speeches, tedium.
Ted Kennedy on the floor of the 1960 Democratic National Convention.
Getty
Next was Kennedy's occasion. Governor Freeman of Minnesota made the speech. On the second or third sentence his television prompter jammed, an accident. Few could be
aware of it at the moment; the speech seemed merely flat and surprisingly void of bravura. He was obviously no giant of extempore. Then the demonstration. Well-run,
bigger than Johnson's, jazzier, the caliber of the costumes and decoration better chosen: the placards were broad enough, "Let's Back Jack," the floats were garish, particularly
a papier-mâché or plastic balloon of Kennedy's head, six feet in diameter, which had nonetheless the slightly shrunken, over-red, rubbery look of a toy for practical jokers in
one of those sleazy off-Times Square magic-and-gimmick stores; the band was suitably corny; and yet one had the impression this demonstration had been designed by some
hands-to-hip interior decorator who said, "Oh, joy, let's have fun, let's make thistrue beer hall."
Besides, the personnel had something of the Kennedy élan, those paper hats designed to look like straw boaters with Kennedy's face on the crown, and small photographs of
him on the ribbon, those hats which had come to symbolize the crack speed of the Kennedy team, that Madison Avenue cachet which one finds in the bars like P. J. Clarke's,
the elegance always giving its subtle echo of the Twenties so that the raccoon coats seem more numerous than their real count, and the colored waistcoats are measured by
the charm they would have drawn from Scott Fitzgerald's eye. But there, it occurred to one for the first time that Kennedy's middle name was just that, Fitzgerald, and the
tone of his crack lieutenants, the unstated style, was true to Scott. The legend of Fitzgerald had an army at last, formed around the self-image in the mind of every superior
Madison Avenue opportunist that he was hard, he was young, he was In, his conversation was lean as wit, and if the work was not always scrupulous, well the style could
aspire. If there came a good day…he could meet the occasion.
The Kennedy snake dance ran its thirty lively minutes, cheered its seconding speeches, and sat back. They were so sure of winning, there had been so many victories before
this one, and this one had been scouted and managed so well, that hysteria could hardly be the mood. Besides, everyone was waiting for the Stevenson barrage which should
be at least diverting. But now came a long tedium. Favorite sons were nominated, fat mayors shook their hips, seconders told the word to constituents back in Ponderwaygot
County, treacly demonstrations tried to hold the floor, and the afternoon went by; Symington's hour came and went, a good demonstration, good as Johnson's (for good cause
—they had pooled their demonstrators). More favorite sons, Governor Docking of Kansas declared "a genius" by one of his lady speakers in a tense go-back-to-religion
voice. The hours went by, two, three, four hours, it seemed forever before they would get to Stevenson. It was evening when Senator Eugene McCarthy of Minnesota got up
to nominate him.
The gallery was ready, the floor was responsive, the demonstrators were milling like bulls in their pen waiting for the toril to fly open—it would have been hard not to wake
the crowd up, not to make a good speech. McCarthy made a great one. Great it was by the measure of convention oratory, and he held the crowd like a matador, timing
their oles!, building them up, easing them back, correcting any sag in attention, gathering their emotion, discharging it, creating new emotion on the wave of the last, driving
his passes tighter and tighter as he readied for the kill. "Do not reject this man who made us all proud to be called Democrats, do not leave the prophet without honor in his
own party." One had not heard a speech like this since 1948 when Vito Marcantonio's voice, his harsh, shrill, bitter, street urchin's voice screeched through the loud-speakers
at Yankee Stadium and lashed seventy thousand people into an uproar.
"There was only one man who said let's talk sense to the American people," McCarthy went on, his muleta furled for the naturales. "There was only one man who said let's
talk sense to the American people," he repeated. "He said the promise of America is the promise of greatness. This was his call to greatness....Do not forget this man....Ladies
and Gentlemen, I present to you not the favorite son of one state, but the favorite son of the fifty states, the favorite son of every country which has not seen him but is
secretly thrilled by his name." Bedlam. The kill. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you Adlai Stevenson of Illinois." Ears and tail. Hooves and bull. A roar went up like the
roar one heard the day Bobby Thompson hit his home run at the Polo Grounds and the Giants won the pennant from the Dodgers in the third playoff game of the 1951
season. The demonstration cascaded onto the floor, the gallery came to its feet, the Sports Arena sounded like the inside of a marching drum. A tidal pulse of hysteria,
exaltation, defiance, exhilaration, anger, and roaring desire flooded over the floor. The cry which had gone up on McCarthy's last sentence had not paused for breath in five
minutes, and troop after troop of demonstrators jammed the floor (the Stevenson people to be scolded the next day for having collected floor passes and sent them out to
bring in new demonstrators) and still the sound mounted. One felt the convention coming apart. There was a Kennedy girl in the seat in front of me, the Kennedy hat on her
head, a dimpled healthy brunette; she had sat silently through McCarthy's speech, but now, like a woman paying her respects to the power of natural thrust, she took off her
hat and began to clap herself. I saw a writer I knew in the next aisle; he had spent a year studying the Kennedy machine in order to write a book on how nomination is won. If
Stevenson stampeded the convention, his work was lost. Like a reporter at a mine cave-in I inquired the present view of the widow. "Who can think," was the answer, half
frantic, half elated, "just watch it, that's all." I found a cool one, a New York reporter, who smiled in rueful respect. "It's the biggest demonstration I've seen since Wendell
Willkie's in 1940," he said, and added, "God, if Stevenson takes it, I can wire my wife and move the family on to Hawaii."
"I don't get it."
"Well, every story I wrote said it was locked up for Kennedy."
Still it went on, twenty minutes, thirty minutes, the chairman could hardly be heard, the demonstrators refused to leave. The lights were turned out, giving a sudden theatrical
shift to the sense of a crowded church at midnight, and a new roar went up, louder, more passionate than anything heard before. It was the voice, it was the passion, if one
insisted to call it that, of everything in America which was defeated, idealistic, innocent, alienated, outside and Beat, it was the potential voice of a new third of the nation
whose psyche was ill from cultural malnutrition, it was powerful, it was extraordinary, it was larger than the decent, humorous, finicky, half-noble man who had called it
forth, it was a cry from the Thirties when Time was simple, it was a resentment of the slick technique, the oiled gears, and the superior generals of Fitzgerald's Army; but it
was also—and for this reason one could not admire it altogether, except with one's excitement—it was also the plea of the bewildered who hunger for simplicity again, it was
the adolescent counterpart of the boss's depression before the unpredictable dynamic of Kennedy as President, it was the return to the sentimental dream of Roosevelt rather
than the approaching nightmare of history's oncoming night, and it was inspired by a terror of the future as much as a revulsion of the present.

Fitz's Army held; after the demonstration was finally down, the convention languished for ninety minutes while Meyner and others were nominated, a fatal lapse of time
because Stevenson had perhaps a chance to stop Kennedy if the voting had begun on the echo of the last cry for him, but in an hour and a half depression crept in again and
emotions spent, the delegates who had wavered were rounded into line. When the vote was taken, Stevenson had made no gains. The brunette who had taken off her hat was
wearing it again, and she clapped and squealed when Wyoming delivered the duke and Kennedy was in. The air was sheepish, like the mood of a suburban couple who
forgive each other for cutting in and out of somebody else's automobile while the country club dance is on. Again, tonight, no miracle would occur. In the morning the papers
would be moderate in their description of Stevenson's last charge.
One did not go to the other convention. It was seen on television, and so too much cannot be said of that. It did however confirm one's earlier bias that the Republican Party
was still a party of church ushers, undertakers, choirboys, prison wardens, bank presidents, small-town police chiefs, state troopers, psychiatrists, beauty-parlor operators,
corporation executives, Boy-Scout leaders, fraternity presidents, tax-board assessors, community leaders, surgeons, Pullman porters, head nurses and the fat sons of rich
fathers. Its candidate would be given the manufactured image of an ordinary man, and his campaign, so far as it was a psychological campaign (and this would be far indeed),
would present him as a simple, honest, dependable, hard-working, ready-to-learn, modest, humble, decent, sober young man whose greatest qualification for President was
his profound abasement before the glories of the Republic, the stability of the mediocre, and his own unworthiness. The apocalyptic hour of Uriah Heep.
It would then be a campaign unlike the ones which had preceded it. Counting by the full spectrum of complete Right to absolute Left, the political differences would be
minor, but what would be not at all minor was the power of each man to radiate his appeal into some fundamental depths of the American character. One would have an
inkling at last if the desire of America was for drama or stability, for adventure or monotony. And this, this appeal to the psychic direction America would now choose for
itself was the element most promising about this election, for it gave the possibility that the country might be able finally to rise above the deadening verbiage of its issues, its
politics, its jargon, and live again by an image of itself. For in some part of themselves the people might know (since these candidates were not old enough to be revered) that
they had chosen one young man for his mystery, for his promise that the country would grow or disintegrate by the unwilling charge he gave to the intensity of the myth, or
had chosen another young man for his unstated oath that he would do all in his power to keep the myth buried and so convert the remains of Renaissance man as rapidly as
possible into mass man. One might expect them to choose the enigma in preference to the deadening certainty. Yet one must doubt America's bravery. This lurching,
unhappy, pompous and most corrupt nation—could it have the courage finally to take on a new image for itself, was it brave enough to put into office not only one of its
ablest men, its most efficient, its most conquistadorial (for Kennedy's capture of the Democratic Party deserves the word), but also one of its more mysterious men (the
national psyche must shiver in its sleep at the image of Mickey Mantle-cum-Lindbergh in office, and a First Lady with an eighteenth-century face). Yes, America was at last
engaging the fate of its myth, its consciousness about to be accelerated or cruelly depressed in its choice between two young men in their forties who, no matter how close,
dull, or indifferent their stated politics might be, were radical poles apart, for one was sober, the apotheosis of opportunistic lead, all radium spent, the other handsome as a
prince in the unstated aristocracy of the American dream. So, finally, would come a choice which history had never presented to a nation before—one could vote for glamour
or for ugliness, a staggering and most stunning choice—would the nation be brave enough to enlist the romantic dream of itself, would it vote for the image in the mirror of
its unconscious, were the people indeed brave enough to hope for an acceleration of Time, for that new life of drama which would come from choosing a son to lead them
who was heir apparent to the psychic loins? One could pause: it might be more difficult to be a President than it ever had before. Nothing less than greatness would do.
Yet if the nation voted to improve its face, what an impetus might come to the arts, to the practices, to the lives and to the imagination of the American. If the nation so voted.
But one knew the unadmitted specter in the minds of the Democratic delegates: that America would go to sleep on election eve with the polls promising Kennedy a victory on
the day to come, yet in its sleep some millions of Democrats and Independents would suffer a nightmare before the mystery of uncharted possibilities their man would
suggest, and in a terror of all the creativities (and some violences) that mass man might now have to dare again, the undetermined would go out in the morning to vote for the
psychic security of Nixon the way a middle-aged man past adventure holds to the stale bread of his marriage. Yes, this election might be fearful enough to betray the polls
and no one in America could plan the new direction until the last vote as counted by the last heeler in the last ambivalent ward, no one indeed could know until then what had
happened the night before, what had happened at three o'clock in the morning on that long dark night of America's search for a security cheaper than her soul.
This interview originally appeared in the November 1960 issue of Esquire Magazine. Read every Esquire story ever published onEsquire Classic.
Abstract
Understanding Design Thinking
World-altering technological advances have lifted humanity to a new standard of living and produced
wonders that few people imagined possible. They’ve also
created societies defined by waste and pollution. People must innovate to resolve this situation, but technological
innovation won’t be enough. Society needs a new approach to innovation that aligns the needs of human
beings and the natural world. “Design thinking,” which builds on the ways designers conceptualize their work,
can provide that approach, and it is not limited to designers. Those who use design thinking access their nascent
creative capacities.
Designers once focused on product development and little else. They often considered design concepts in
isolation. More recently, designers have begun applying design principles not just to physical products, but
also to consumer experiences, to production and interaction processes, and to improvements that make existing
products more appealing or functional. They use design thinking in all disciplines and markets.
When the Japanese bicycle company Shimano set out in 2004 to address market challenges, it cooperated with
IDEO to figure out why only 10% of American adults rode bikes, though 90% of them had ridden as kids. They
analyzed consumers’ positive biking experiences as children, their negative associations as adults and what was
needed to align the two gestalts. New bicycle designs emerged from this “human-centered exploration,” the
products of observation and interaction, not technological breakthroughs.
Stages of Innovation
It would be nice to follow a checklist and innovate successfully, but that’s not possible. Traveling into new
territory means never being able to map your route fully
beforehand. Innovators use design thinking to move through three general phases:
“Design thinking has its origins in the training and the professional practice of designers, but these are principles
that can be practiced by everyone and extended to every fi eld of activity.”
“The transforma-tion of a business-as-usual culture into one focused on innovation and driven by design involves
activities, decisions and attitudes.”
During “inspiration,” they experience a “problem or opportunity” that sets them in motion; during “ideation,” they
generate and test ideas; and during “implementation,”
they move their innovation “from the project room to the market.” Products may cycle through these steps more
than once.
While moving through these three stages, design thinking functions within a framework of three intersecting
“constraints.” They are “feasibility,” which is what can be done; “viability,” what you can do successfully
within a business; and “desirability,” what people want or will come to want. The Nintendo Wii is a good
example of working successfully with these constraints. Before the Wii, video game innovators focused
mainly on making their components (graphics, consoles, etc.) better. Nintendo designers stepped back and asked
how they could make video games more appealing to a wider market. This illustrates the difference between design
and design thinking.As design thinkers find ways to navigate these constraints creatively, they shift from solving a
specific “problem” to working on a “project.” The project starts with writing a brief, which states the problem and
goals for resolving it. Briefs should focus but not limit your thinking. Next, assemble an interdisciplinary “project
team” to work collaboratively.
Analyze how your group interacts. Choose the makeup and methods that best promote individual design thinking,
rather than groupthink. Assemble a team that fosters multiple perspectives, quick production and fluid
communication. Such teams are more likely to thrive in organizations like Google and Pixar, which nurture
“cultures of innovation.”
These firms reward risk taking, encourage designers to mix with the rest of the company, support play and new
ideas, don’t demonize failure, and don’t overemphasize regulations or efficiency.
Insight into how people actually use things is central to design thinking. This insight comes not from crunching
numbers, but rather from observing what people actually do, noting what they don’t do, and understanding what
they don’t or can’t explain about what they do. Design thinking borrows ethnographic observational techniques
from anthropology and reapplies them to generating practical solutions. This requires empathy, because
feeling alongside others allows you to move past seeing them as subjects or consumers and really experience things
as they do. For example, when Kristian Simsarian of IDEO needed to identify problem areas in the hospital
experience, he checked in as a patient and monitored the delays, frustrations and confusions of the process. He
learned that the “patient journey” sick people experience is radically different from the beliefs medical
professionals hold about how things work. Design thinking observes how people interact as groups and cultures.
Design Thinking’s Thought Process
When you practice design thinking, you move through “four mental states.” “Divergent thinking” can generate
alternatives to the present reality and provide more choices. Next, employ “convergent thinking” to sort your
options and decide which is best. Then apply “analysis and synthesis”. Analysis breaks patterns down, and
synthesis “identifies meaningful patterns” as you reassemble them. Shift cyclically back and forth among
these states, generating the new, analyzing it, sifting and selecting, and then examining it in practice – and, often,
starting the whole process over again. Evaluate ideas based on their own merits, not on who thought of them.
For this to work, your organization must embrace “an attitude of experimentation” andbe open to risk. Follow
the ideas that excite people.
“The willing and even enthusiastic acceptance of competing constraints is the foundation of design thinking.” “One
way to help design thinking...is for designers to make their clients part of the experience.”
“We are in the midst of a signifi cant change in how we think about the role of consumers in the process of design
and development.” “Linear thinking is about sequences; mind maps are aboutconnections.”
Everyone in the organization should understand the goals as your leaders guide the creation process.
Participants are more likely to generate good new ideas when they’re exposed to outside conditions and people in
other departments. One potentially useful
approach is the “design challenge”: Invite people to solve a specific problem within a set of constraints, so they can
win recognition and financial reward.
Don’t try to create ideas in isolation, in the abstract or by using words alone. Use multiple methods. Draw –
whether or not you have drawing talent. Visual representations create new insights in the form of “mind maps”
that show multidirectional connections that linear verbal descriptions could obscure. Prototypes and
drawings help develop ideas faster. Prototypes don’t have to be expensive or time-consuming. In fact, the
opposite is better: Put as little time and effort into prototypes as you can and still “generate useful feedback and
drive an idea forward.” Early in the process, prototypes can be very basic – just enough to see if something is
viable. Imaging software can help, but, for example, researchers first conceived “insulin injection devices” with
tools as rudimentary as Legos. Role-playing can be useful. Acting out scenarios using an imagined device can
bring its possibilities to life. “Virtual worlds” like Second Life allow you to observe people interacting
with a virtual version of a new service, such as a specialized hotel, with no actual construction at all. You
can make prototypes of concepts or abstractions, like organizational structures, as IDEO did when it had to
reorganize following the 2000 dot-com industry crash. Its staffers used computer games, workshops, small group
discussions, formal speeches and even dance to produce a company culture better suited to new market realities.
Today a successful innovation must address a user’s experience and emotional response.Create “an experience
blueprint” to guide construction of a user’s emotional journey. You cannot connect to someone’s emotion
in the abstract or from the outside; instead, you must inhabit the user’s perspective and feel what that person
feels. Closely related to the experience blueprint is the ancient practice of storytelling. Stories put “ideas into
context and give them meaning,” and are essential to design thinking. Physical design works with space; stories
have the advantage of working in time. Focus
your stories on how your organization fulfills some core human need. Narratives help “create multiple touchpoints”
along the user’s experiential timeline. Consumers should experience the desired emotions at the following
stages: when they search for your service or product, when they purchase it and when they use it. Particularly
attractive stories become infectious, passing from person to person like a virus – or “meme,” as Richard Dawkins
named these “self-propagating” ideas. Employ engaging, focused stories to communicate your innovation’s
value, to help it survive the development process within the company, and to boost its value in the marketplace.
To improve your organization’s design thinking, evaluate the kind of thinkers you have, and hire others; add
designers or engineers to your team. Screen applicants for innovative impulses and diverse experiences. Train
your staff in the tools of design thinking, encouraging them always to observe the user’s experience, to
strategize, tell stories and form partnerships with clients. Hold workshops to inspire innovation and introduce
specific tools. Rework your incentive system, and develop criteria for measuring the innovation you want
to produce. If you don’t have the resources in-house for training, work with outside firms that specialize in
innovation. Listen to customers, and approach your company from their perspective.
“Rapid change is forcing us to look not just to new ways of solving problems but to new problems to
solve.”“The obvious counterpart to an attitude of experimentation is a climate of optimism.”
“Although it might seem as though frittering away valuable time on sketchesand models and simulations will slow
work down, prototyping generates results faster.”
“Prototyping is always inspirational – not in the sense of a perfected artwork but just the opposite: because it
inspires new ideas.”
Applying Design Thinking
In the decades since World War II, corporations have poured money into researchdepartments. Now, more
than a million people in the United States alone work in corporate research and development facilities. While
this has produced tremendous success, corporations are finding that investment in science or technology alone
doesn’t bring the returns it once did. Instead, companies need to use design thinking to explore new ways of
envisioning their products. For example, Nokia successfully sold cellphones from the early 1990s on, but its leaders
saw that neither its market share nor its technology would be enough to maintain its dominance. Instead, in 2006,
Nokia started analyzing “alternatives to its existing hardware-driven approach.” Its researchers watched
people use cellphones and saw that customers wanted to be able to do more than talk: They wanted to connect,
and to share their lives. This meant incorporating cameras and internet access.
Rather than look at a single example of successful innovation, muster “design thinking to manage an innovation
portfolio.” Consider an innovation from the perspective of a new or existing user faced with new or
existing offerings. You can “adapt” current products for novices, or bring fresh offerings to experienced users;
both are evolutionary strategies. Or, focus on creating offerings to new users in a “revolutionary” approach.
Recognize that different types of innovations require different management strategies and investments, and
carry different levels of risk.
Embracing design thinking helps create new products that adapt to changing market conditions. It’s also
realistic: All businesses must become more service-oriented and offer a stronger “customer experience.” As the
distinction between products and services blurs, so does the distinction between consumer and producer.
Massive, successful products like Wikipedia demonstrate this fact: People use it, but they also take part in creating
it.
The context of innovation is changing. You now have the opportunity to design not only for local
customers and profit, but to meet the needs of communities, and to make the world a better place. Dr. G.
Venkataswamy founded Aravind Eye Hospital to bringaffordable, accessible medical care to India’s poor. He
surmounted complex design challenges to offer quality treatment as inexpensively as possible and to
operate on a level of “scale and efficiency” that he compared to McDonald’s. To address such issues, socially
oriented design thinkers may work through nongovernmental organizations or as the partners of charitable
foundations.
As you create new possibilities, address environmental realities. You might focus on a smaller scale, as Pangea
Organics does with its environmentally friendly soap. You mighttry to transform an entire industry, as Amory
Lovins and the Rocky Mountain Institute are attempting with the auto industry. No matter where you focus
design thinking, a constant inspiring constraint is “doing more with less” and reco the interwoven nature of the
economy and the environment.
About the Author
Tim Brown
is president and CEO of IDEO, an award-winning design and innovation firm. He advises senior executives and
members of the boards of Fortune 100 companies.
“Designing with time is a little different from designing in space. The design thinker has to be comfortable moving
along both of these axes.” “More good ideas die because they fail to navigate the treacherous waters of the
organization where they originate than because the market rejects them.”“An organization that commits itself to the
human-centered tenets of design thinking is practicing enlightened self-interest.”

George Orwell Reflections On Gandhi

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George Orwell

— ‘Shooting an Elephant and Other Essays’. — 1950.

— ‘The Orwell Reader, Fiction, Essays, and Reportage’ — 1956.

— ‘Collected Essays’. — 1961.

— ‘The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell’. — 1968.

‘Reflections on Gandhi’: [Index page]

Library [Eng] [Rus] > Reviews [Eng] [Rus] ~ [CSS off]

Sub: Revalidation/ salvaging of unused Sodexo Meal Pass

May kindly help.

Encl: Sodexo coupons series nos. 190638127-190638205 (79 nos)

Asstt Manager (P-Mech)

Dasgupta is more cutting. He writes:

Please return this with your comments.

The next day, Manekshaw responded:

His very last letter to Frank was on 10 June 1998:

Foot in the door: Lateral entry

The writer is a former Army and IAS officer.

“I had no idea Ramu felt so deeply about Bapu’s assassination.”

It was, and it was not. Blood brought something extra.

Twelve-and-a-half at the time, I was taking part in a school athletics event.

A quick note of thanks to Barb Oakley, Scott Young, Nasos Papadopoulos, Kalid

But for now, without further ado – here’s the list!

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